
MAE^FE AlEIS 



,3^ 



FROM SHAKSPEAEE. 



DESIGNED rOR THE 



USE OF YOUNG PERSONS. 



BY CHARLES LAMB. 



FROM THE FIFTH LONDON EDITION, 



BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY. 

1866. 



PR22Tr 



^„y and K. vr Oluto 



PREFACE 



The following Tales are meant to be sub- 
mitted to the young reader as an introduc- 
tion to the study of Shakspeare, for which 
purpose his words are used whenever it 
seemed possible to bring them in; and in 
whatever has been added to give them the 
regular form of a connected story, diligent 
care has been taken to select such words as 
might least interrupt the effect of the beau- 
tiful English tongue in which he wrote: 
therefore words introduced into our lan- 
guage since his time have been as far as pos- 
sible avoided. 

In those Tales which have been taken 
from the Tragedies, as my young readers 
will perceive when they come to see the 
source from which these stories are deriv 
ed, Shakspeare's own words, with little al- 
teration, recur very frequently in the nar- 
rative as well as in the dialogue; but in 
those made from the Comedies I found my- 
self scarcely ever able to turn his words 
into the narrative form; therefore I fear in 
them I have made use of dialogue too fre- 
quently for young people not used to the 



iv PREFACK- 

dramatic form of writing. But this fault, 
if it be as I fear a fault, has been caused by 
my earnest wish to give as much of Shaks- 
peare's own words as possible: and if the 
^' He said,^^ and '^^ She said^^^ the question 
and the reply, should sometimes seem tedi- 
ous to their young ears, they must pardon 
it, because it was the only way 1 knew of. 
in which I could give them a few hints and 
little foretastes of the great pleasure which 
awaits them in their elder years, when they 
come to the rich treasures from which these 
small and valueless coins are extracted; pre- 
tending to no other merit than as faint and 
imperfect stamps of Shakspeare's matchless 
image. Faint and imperfect images they 
must be called, because the beauty of his 
language is too frequently destroyed by the 
necessity of changing many of his excellent 
words into words far less expressive of his 
true sense, to make it read somethmg like 
piose; and even in some few places, where 
his blank verse is given unaltered, as hop- 
ing from its simple plainness to cheat the 
young readers into the belief that they are 
reading prose, yet still his language being 
transplanted from its own natural soil and 
wild poetic garden, it must want much of 
its native beauty. 

I have wished to make these Tales easy 
reading for very young children. To the 
utmost of my ability I have constantly kept 



PREFACE. V 

this in my mind; but the subjects of most 
of them made this a very diflficult task. It 
was no easy matter to give the histories of 
men and women in terms familiar to the ap- 
prehension of a very young mind. For 
young ladies too it has baen my intention 
chiefly to write, because boys are generally 
permitted the use of their fathers' libraries 
at a much earlier age than girls are, they 
frequently having the best scenes of Shaks- 
peare by heart, before their sisters are per- 
mitted to look into this manly book; and, 
therefore, instead of recommending these 
Tales to the perusal of young gentlemen 
who can read them so much better in the 
originals, I must rather beg their kind as- 
sistance in explaining to their sisters such 
parts as are hardest for them to understand: 
and when they have helped them to get 
over the difficulties, then perhaps they will 
read to them (carefully selecting what is 
proper for a young sister's ear) some pas- 
sage which has pleased them in one of 
these stories, in the very words of the scene 
from which it is taken; and I trust they 
will find that the beautiful extracts, the se- 
lect passages, they may choose to give their 
sisters in this way, will be much better re- 
lished and understood from their having 
some notion of the general story from one 
of these imperfect abridgments: — which, 
if they be fortunately so done as to prove 



VI PREFACE. 

delightful to any of you, m}' young readers, 
I hope will have no worse effect upon you, 
than to make you wish yourselves a little 
older, that you may be allowed to read the 
Plays at full length (such a wish will be 
neither peevish nor irrational.) When 
time and leave of judicious friends shall put 
them into your hands, you will discover in 
such of them as are here abridged (not to 
mention almost as many more which are lef"^ 
untouched,) many surprising events and 
turns of fortune, which, for their infinite 
variety, could not be contained in this little 
book, besides a world of sprightly and 
cheerful characters, both men and women, 
the humour of which I was fearful of losing 
if I attempted to reduce the length of them. 
What these Tales have been to you in 
childhood, that and much more it is my wish 
that the true Plays of Shakspeare may prove 
to you in older years — enrichers of the fan- 
cy, strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing 
from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a 
lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts 
and actions, to teach you courtesy, benig- 
nity, generosity, humanity: for of exam- 
ples, teaching these virtues, his pages are 
full. 



CONTENTS 



Page 

The Tempest , . . . . 9 

A Midsummer Night's Dream 24 

The Winter's Tale 39 

Much Ado about Nothing 54 

As You Like It .... 71 

The Two Gentlemen of Verona 92 

The Merchant of Venice .109 

Cymbeline 126 

King Lear 143 

Macbeth 163 

All's Well that Ends Well 178 

The Taming of the Shrew 195 

The Comedy of Errors 209 

Measure for Measure 228 

Twelfth Night; or What you WiU 248 

Timon of Athens 266 

Romeo and Juliet 283 

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark 306 

Othello .- . . 327 

Pericles, Prince of Tyr§- 345 



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THE TEMPEST 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



THE TEMPEST. 

There was a certain island in the sea, the only 
inhabitants of which were an old man, whose 
name was Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, 
a very beautiful young lady. She came to this 
island so young, that she had no memory of hav- 
ing seen any other human face than her father's. 

They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a 
rock: it was divided into several apartments, one 
of which Prospero called his study; there he kept 
his books, which chiefly treated of magic, a study 
at that time much affected by all learned men: 
and the knowledge of this art he found very use- 
ful to him; for being thrown by a strange chance 
upon this island, which had been enchanted by a 
witch called Sycorax, who died there a short time 
before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his art, 
released many good spirits that Sycorax had im- 
prisoned in the bodies of large trees, because they 
had refused to execute her wicked commands. 
These gentle spirits were ever after obedient to 
the will of Prospero. Of these Ariel was the chief. 

The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mis- 
chievous in his nature, except that he took rathei 
too much pleasure in tormenting an ugly mon- 
ster called Cahban, for he owed him a grudge be- 
cause he was the son of his old enemy Sycorax 



10 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

This Caliban, Prospero found in the woods, a 
strange misshapen thing, far less human in form 
than an ape: he took him home to his ceU, and 
taught him to speak; and Prospero would have 
been very kind to him, but the bad nature which 
Caliban inherited from his mother Sycorax, would 
not let him learn any thing good or useful: there^ 
fore he was employed like a slave, to fetch wood, 
and do the most laborious offices; and Ariel had 
the charge of compelling him to these services. 

When (Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, 
Ariel (who was invisible to all eyes but Prospe- 
ro' s) would come slily and pinch him, and some- 
times tumble him down in the mire; and then 
Ariel, • in the likeness of an ape, would make 
mouths at him. Then swiftly changing his shape, 
in the likeness of a hedgehog, he would lie tumb- 
ling in Caliban's way, who feared the hedgehog's 
sharp quills Avould prick his bare feet. With a 
variety of such-like vexatious tricks Ariel would 
often torment him, whenever Caliban neglected 
the work which Prospero commanded him to do. 

Having these powerful spirits obedient to his 
will, Prospero could by their means command the 
winds, and the waves of the sea. By his orders 
they raised a violent storm, in the midst of which, 
and struggling with the wild sea-waves that every 
moment threatened to swallow it up, he showed 
his daughter a fine large ship, which he told her 
was full of living beings like themselves. " my 
dear father," said she, "if by your art you have 
raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their sad 
distress. See! the vessel will be dashed to pieces. 
Poor souls! they will all perish. If I had power, 
I would sink the sea beneath the earth, rather 



THE TEMPEST. 11 

than the good ship should be destroyed, with all 
the precious souls within her." 

''Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda," said 
Prospero; ''there is no harm done. I have so 
ordered it, that no person in the ship shall receive 
any hurt. What I have done has been in care 
of you, my dear, child. You are ignorant who 
you are, or where you came from, and you know 
no more of me, but that I am your father, and 
live in this poor cave. Can you remember a time 
before you came to this cell? I think you cannot, 
for you were not then three years of age." 

" Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda. 

"By what?" asked Prospero; "by any other 
house or person? Tell me what you can remem- 
ber, my child." 

Miranda said, " It seems to me hke the re- 
collection of a dream. But had I not once four 
or five women who attended upon me?" 

Prospero answered, " You had, and more. How 
is it that this still lives in your mind? Do you re- 
member how you came here?" 

" No sir," said Miranda, " I remember nothing 
more." 

" Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued Pros- 
pero, "I was duke of Milan, and you were a 
princess and my only heir. I had a younger 
brother, whose name was Antonio, to whom I 
trusted every thing; and as I was fond of retire- 
ment and deep study, I commonly left the ma- 
nagement of my state affairs to your uncle, my 
false brother (for so indeed he proved.) I, ne- 
glecting all worldly en h, buried among my books, 
did dedicate my whole time to the bettering of 
my mind. My brother Antonio being thus in 



12 TALES FROM SHAKSPE-*RE. 

possession of my power, began to think himself 
the duke indeed. The opportunity I gave him of 
making himself popular among my subjects, 
awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition to 
deprive me of my dukedom: this he soon effect- 
ed with the aid of the king of Naples, a powerful 
prince, who was m.y enemy." 

"Wherefore," said Miranda, ''did they not 
that hour destroy us?" 

" My child," answered her father, " they durst 
not, so dear was the love tiiat my people bore me. 
Antonio carried us on board a ship, and when we 
were some leagues out at sea, he forced us into a 
small boat, without either tackle, sail, or mast: 
there he left us, as he thought, to perish. But a 
kind lord of my court, one Gonzalo, who loved 
me, had privately placed in the boat, water, pro- 
visions, apparel, and some books which I prize 
above my dukedom." 

'' O my father," said Miranda, ''what a trou- 
ble must I have been to you then!" 

"No, my love," said Prospero, "you were a 
little cherub that did preserve me. Your innocent 
smiles made me to bear up against my misfor- 
tunes. Our food lasted till we landed on this de- 
sert island, since when my chief dehght has been 
in teaching you, Miranda, and well have you pro- 
fited by my instructions." 

" Heaven thank you, my dear father," said 
Miranda. "Now pray tell me, sir, your reason 
for raising this sea-storm?" 

" Know then," said her father, -' that by means 
of this storm my enemies, the king of Naples, 
and my cruel brother, are cast ashore upon this 
island." 



THE TEMPES'J. 13 

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his 
daughter with his magic wand, and she fell fast 
asleep; for the spirit Ariel just then presented 
himself before his master, to give an account of 
the tempest, and how he had disposed of the 
ship's company; and, though the spirits were al- 
ways invisible to Miranda, Prospero did not choose 
she should hear him holding converse (as would 
seem to her) with the empty air. 

" Well, m}' brave spirit," said Prospero to Ariel, 
" how have you performed your task?" 

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, 
and of the terrors of the mariners; and how the 
king's son, Ferdinand, was the first who leaped 
into the sea; and his father thought he saw this 
dear son swallowed up by the waves and lost. 
" But he is safe," said Ariel, '' in a corner of the 
isle, sitting with his arms folded sadly, lamenting 
the loss of the king his father, whom he concludes 
drowned. Not a hair of his head is injured, and 
his princely garments, though drenched in the 
sea- waves, look fresher than before." 

"That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. 
"Bring him hither: my daughter must see this 
young prince. Where is the king, and my bro- 
ther?" 

" I left them," answered Ariel, " searching for 
Ferdinand, whom they have little hopes of find- 
ing, thinking they saw him perish. Of the ship's 
crew not one is missing; though each one thinks 
himself the only one saved: and the ship, though 
invisible to them, is safe in the harbour." 

"Ariel," said Prospero, "thy charge is faith- 
fully performed: but there is more work yet." 

"Is there more w^ork?" said Ariel. "Let me 
2 



14 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

remind you, master, you have promised me my 
liberty. I pray, remember, I have done you 
worthy service, tok you no hes, made no mis- 
takes, served you without grudge or grumbhng." 

" How now!" said Prospero. " You do not re- 
collect what a torment I freed you from. Have 
you forgot the wicked witch Sycorax, who with 
age and envy was almost bent double? Where 
was she born? Speak: tell me." 

" Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel. 

" was she so?" said Prospero, " I must re- 
count what you have been, which I find you do 
not remember. This bad witch Sycorax, for her 
witchcrafts, too terrible to enter human hearing, 
was banished from Algiers, and here left by the 
£jailors)» and because you were a spirit too delicate 
to execute her wicked commands, she shut you 
up in a tree, where I found you howling. This 
torment, remember, I did free you from." 

" Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, asham- 
ed to seem ungrateful; " I will obey your com- 
mands." 

"Do so," said Prospero, ''and I will set you 
free." He then gave orders what farther he would 
have him do, and away went Ariel, first to where 
he had left Ferdinand, and found him still sitting 
on the grass in the same melancholy posture. 

" O my young gentleman," said Ariel, when 
he saw him, " I will soon move you. You must 
be brought, I find, for the Lady Miranda to have 
a sight of your pretty person. Come, sir, follow 
me." He then began singing, 

" Full fathom five thy father lies: 

Of his bones are coral made; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes: 

Nothing of him that doth fade, 



THE TEMPEST. 15 

But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nyniphs hourly ring his knelh 
Hark, now I hear thein, ding-dong-bell." 

This strange news of his lost father soon roused 
the prince from the stupid fit into which he had 
fallen. He followed in amazement the sound of 
Ariel's voice, till it led him to Prospero and Mi- 
randa, who were sittinsj under the shade of a laroe 
tree. Now Miranda had never seen a man be- 
fore, except her own father. 

" Miranda," said Prospero, " tell me what you 
are looking at yonder." 

"0 father," said Miranda, in a strange sur- 
prise, " surely that is a spirit. Lord! how it looks 
about! Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful creature. 
Is it not a spirit?" 

" No, girl," answered her father,; " it eats, and 
sleeps, and has senses such as we have. This 
young man you see was in the ship. He is some- 
what altered by grief, or you might call him a 
handsome person. He has lost his companions, 
and is wandering about to find them." 

Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces 
and gray beards like her father, was delighted 
with the appearance of this beautiful young prince; 
and Ferdinand, seeing such a lovely lady in this 
desert place, and from the strange sounds he had 
heard, expecting nothing but wonders, thought he 
was upon an enchanted island, and that Miranda 
was the goddess of the place, and as such he be- 
gan to address her. 

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but 
a simple maid, and was going to give him an ac- 
count of herself, when Prospero interrupted her. 



16 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

He was well pleased to find they admired each 
other, for he plainly perceived th^y had (as we 
say) fallen in love at first sight: but to try Ferdi- 
nand's constancy, he resolved to throw some dif- 
ficulties in their way; therefore advancing for^ 
ward, he addressed the prince with a stern air, 
telling him, he came to the island as a spy, to 
take it from him who was the lord of it. '' Fol- 
low me," said he, " I wiU tie you neck and feet 
together. You shall drink sea-water; sheU-fish, 
withered roots, and husks of acorns, shall be your 
food." " No," said Ferdinand, '' I will resist such 
entertainment, tiU I see a more powerful enemy," 
and drew his sword: but Prospero, waving his 
ma.gic wand, fixed him to the spot where he stood, 
so that he had no power to move. 

Miranda hung upon her father, saying, " Why 
are you so ungentle? Have pity, sir; I will be 
his surety. This is the second man I ever saw, 
and to me he seems a true one." 

'' Silence," said her father, " one word more 
wiU make me chide you, girl! What! an advocate 
for an impostor! You think there are no more 
such fine men, having seen only him and Caliban 
I tell you, foolish girl, m.ost men as far excel this, 
as he does Caliban." This he said to prove his 
daughter's constancy; and she rephed, "My af- 
fections are most humble. I have no wish to see 
a goodlier man." 

" Come on, young man," said Prospero to the 
prince, "you have no power to disobey me." 

" I have not indeed," answered Ferdinand; and 
not knowing that it was by magic he was depriv- 
ed of all power of resistance, he was astonished 
to find himself so strangely compelled to follow 



THE TEMPEST. 17 

Prospero: looking back on Miranda as long as he 
could see her, he said, as he went after Prospero 
into the cave, "My spirits are all bound up, as 
if I were in a dream; but this man's threats, and 
the weakness which I feel, would soem light to 
me if from my prison I might once a day behold 
this fair maid." 

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined 
within the cell: he soon brought out his prisoner, 
and set him a severe task to perform, taking care 
to let his daughter know the hard labour he had 
imposed on him, and then pretending to go into 
his study, he secretly watched them both. 

Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up 
some heavy logs of wood. Kings' sons not being 
much used to laborious w^ork, Miranda soon after 
found her lover almost dying with fatigue. '* Alas!" 
said she, " do not work so hard; my father is at 
his studies, he is safe for these three hours: pray 
rest yourself." 

'' my dear lady," said Ferdinand, " I dare 
not. I must finish my task before I take my rest." 

" If you Vv^ill sit dow^n," said Miranda, " I will 
carry your logs the while." But this Ferdinand 
would by no means agree to. Instead of a help 
Miranda became a hinderance, for they began a 
long conversation, so that the business of log- 
carrying went on very slov/ly. 

Prospero, Vvho had enjoined Ferdinand this task 
merely as a trial of his lo^e, was not at his books 
as his daughter supposed, but was standing by 
them invisible, to overhear what they said. 

Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told 
him, saying it was against her father's express 
command she did so. 



18 TALES mOM SHAKSPEARE. 

Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his 
daughter's disobedience, for having by his magic 
art caused his daughter to fall in love so suddenly, 
he was not angry that she showed her love by 
forgetting to obey his commands. And he listened 
well pleased to a long speech of Ferdinand's, in 
which he professed to love her above all the ladies 
he ever saw. 

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which 
he said exceeded all the women in the world, she 
replied, '' I do not remember the face of any wo- 
man, nor have I seen any more men than you, 
my good friend, and my dear father. How fea- 
tures are abroad, I know not; but believe me, sir, 
I would not wish any companion in the world but 
you, nor can my imagination form any shape but 
yours that I could like. But, sir, I fear I talk to 
you too freely, and my father's precepts I forget." 

At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, 
as much as to say, "This goes on exactly as I 
could wish; my girl will be queen of Naples." 

And then Ferdinand, in another fine long 
speech (for young princes speak in courtly phrases,) 
told the innocent Miranda he was heir to the 
crown of Naples, and that she should be his queen. 

"Ah! sir," said she, "I am a fool to weep at 
what I am glad of. I will answer you in plain 
and holy innocence. I am your wife, if you will 
marry me." 

Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by ap- 
pearing visible before them. 

"Fear nothing, my child," said he; "I have 
overheard, and approve of all you have said. And, 
Ferdinand, if I have too severely used you, I will 
make you rich amends, by giving you my daugh- 



THE TEMPEST. 19 

ter. All your vexations were but my trials of 
your love, and you have nobly stood the test. 
Then as my gift, which your true love has wor- 
thily purchased, take my daughter, and do not 
smile that I boast she is above all praise." He 
then, telling them that he had business which re- 
quired his presence, desired they would sit down 
and talk together, till he returned; and this com- 
mand Miranda seemed not at all disposed to dis- 
obey. 

When Prospero left them, he called his spirit 
Ariel, who quickly appeared before him, eager to 
relate what he had done with Prospero' s brothei 
and the king of Naples. Ariel said, he had left 
them almost out of their senses with fear, at the 
strange_ things he had caused them to see and 
hear. When fatigued with wandering about, and 
famished for want of food, he had suddenly set 
before them a dehcious banquet, and then, just 
as they were going to eat, he appeared visible be- 
fore them in the shape of a harpy, a voracious 
monster with wings, and the feast vanished away. 
Then, to their utter amazement, this seeming 
harpy spoke to them, reminding them of their 
cruelty in driving Prospero from his dukedom, 
and leaving him and his infant daughter to perish 
in the sea; saying, that for this cause these ter- 
rors were suffered to afflict them. 

The king of Naples, and Antonio the false 
brother, repented the injustice they had done to 
Prospero: and Ariel told his master he was cer- 
tain their penitence was sincere, and that he, 
though a spirit, could not but pity them. 

''Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Pros- 
pero: " if you, who are but a spirit, feel for their 



i 



^20 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

distress, shall not I, who am a human being like 
themselves, have compassion on them? Bring 
them quickly, my dainty Ariel." 

Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, 
and old Gonzalo in their train, who had followed 
him, wondering at the wild music he played in 
the air to draw them on to his master's presence. 
This Gonzalo was the same who had so kindly 
provided Prospero formerly with books and pro- 
visions, when his wicked brother left him, as he 
thought, to perish in an open boat in the sea. 

Grief and terror had so stupified their senses, 
that they did not know Prospero. He first disco- 
vered himself to the good old Gonzalo, calHng 
him the preserver of his life; and then his bro- 
ther and the king knew that he was the injured 
Prospero. 

Antonio with tears, and sad words of sorrow 
and true repentance, implored his brother's for- 
giveness; and the king expressed his sincere re- 
morse for having assisted Antonio to depose his 
brother: and Prospero forgave them; and, upon 
their engaging to restore his dukedom, he said to 
the king of Naples, "I have a gift in store foi 
you too;" and opening a door, showed him his 
son Ferdinand, playing at chess with Miranda. 

Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and 
the son at this unexpected meeting, for they each 
thought the other drowned in the storm. 

" O wonder!" said Miranda, " what noble crea 
tures these are! It must surely be a brave world 
that has such people in it." 

The king of Naples was almost as much asto- 
nished at the beauty and excellent graces of the 
young Miranda, as his son had been. " Who is 



THE TEMPEST. 21 

this maid? said he; " she seems the goddess that 
has parted us, and brought us thus together." 
"No, sir," answered Ferdinand, smiling to find 
his father had fallen into the same mistake that 
he had done when he first saw Miranda, " she is 
a mortal, but by immortal Providence she is mine; 
r chose her when I could not ask you, my father, 
for vour consent, not thinking you were alive. 
She IS the daughter to this Prospero, who is the 
famous duke of Milan, of whose renown I have 
heard so much, but never saw him till now: of 
him I have received a new hfe: he has made 
himself to me a second father, giving me this 
dear lady." 

"Then I must be her father," said the king: 
"but oh! how oddly will it sound, that I must 
ask my child forgiveness." 

" No more of that," said Prospero: "let us not 
remember our troubles past, since they so happily 
have ended." And then Prospero embraced his 
brother, and again assured him of his forgive- 
ness; and said that a wise, overruling Providence 
had permitted that he should be driven from his 
poor dukedom of Milan, that his daughter might 
inherit the crown of Naples, for that by their 
meeting in this desert island, it happened that 
the king's son had loved Miranda. 

These kind words which Prospero spoke, mean- 
ing to comfort his brother, so filled Antonio with 
shame and remorse, that he wept and was unable 
to speak: and the kind old Gonzalo wept to see 
this joyful reconciliation, and prayed for blessings 
on the young couple. 

Prospero nov/ told them that their ship was 
safe in the harbour, and the sailors all on board 



22 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

her, and that he and his daughter would accom> 
pany them home the next morning. "In the 
mean time," said he, "partake of such refresh- 
ments as my poor cave affords; and for your 
evening's entertainment I will relate the history 
of my life from my first landing in this desert 
island." He then called for Caliban to prepare 
some food, and set the cave in order; and the 
company were astonished at the uncouth form 
and savage appearance of this ugly monster, who 
(Prospero said) was the only attendant he had to 
wait upon him. 

Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed 
Ariel from his service, to the great joy of that 
lively little spirit; who, though he had been a 
faithful servant to his master, was always longing 
to enjoy his free liberty, to wander uncontrolled 
in the air, like a wild bird, under green trees, 
among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling flowers. 
" My quaint Ariel," said Prospero to the little 
sprite when he made him free, " I shall miss you; 
yet you shall have your freedom." " Thank you, 
my dear master," said Ariel; " but give me leave 
to attend your ship home with prosperous gales, 
before you bid' farewell to the assistance of your 
faithful spirit; and then, master, when I am free, 
how merrily I shall live!" Here Ariel sung this 
pretiy song: 



" Where the bee "sucks, there suck I; 

In a cowslip's bell I lie; 

There I couch when owls do cry. 

On the bat's back I do fly 

After summer merrily. 

Merrily, merrily, shall I live 'aow 

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough." 



THE TEMPEST. 23 

Prospero then buried deep in the earth his ma- 
gical books and wand, for he was resolved never 
more to make use of the magic art. And having 
thus overcome his enemies, and being reconciled 
to his brother and the king of Naples, nothing 
now remained to complete his happiness, but to 
re^dsit his native land, to take possession of his 
dukedom, and to witness the happy nuptials of 
his daughter Miranda and Prince Ferdinand, 
which the king said should be instantly celebrated 
with great splendour on their return to Naples. 
At which place, under the safe convoy of the spirit 
Ariel, they after a pleasant voyage soon arrived. 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 

There was a law in the city of Athens which 
gave to its citizens the power of compelling their 
daughters to marry whomsoever they pleased: 
■for upon a daughter's refusing to marry the man 
her father had chosen to be her husband, the fa- 
ther was empowered by this law to cause her to 
be put to death; but as fathers do not often desire 
the death of their own daughters, even though 
they do happen to prove a little refractory, this 
law was seldom or never put in execution, though 
perhaps the young ladies of that city were not 
unfrequently threatened by their parents with 
the terrors of it. 

There was one instance, however, of an old 
man, whose name was Egeus, who actually did 
come before Theseus (at that time the reigning 
duke of Athens,) to complain that his daughter 
Hermia, whom he had commanded to marry De- 
metrius,, a young man of a noble Athenian family, 
refused to obey him, because she loved another 
young Athenian, named Lysander. Egeus de- 
manded justice of Theseus, and desired that this 
cruel law might be put in force against his 
daughter. 

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, 
that Demetrius tiad formerly professed love for 
her dear friend Helena, and that Helena loved 
Demetrius to distraction; but this honourable rea- 
son which Hermia gave for not obeying her fa- 
ther's command moved not the stern Egeus. 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM. 25 

Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, 
had no power to alter the laws of his country; 
therefore he could only give Hermia four days to 
consider of it: and at the end of that time, if she 
still refused to marry Demetrius, she was to be 
put to death. 

When Hermia was dismissed from the presence 
of the duke, she went to her lover Lysander, and 
told him the peril she was in, and that she must 
either give up him and marry Demetrius, or lose 
her life in four days. 

Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these 
evil tidings; but recollecting that he had an aunt 
who lived at some distance from Athens, and that 
at the place w^here she lived the cruel law could 
not be put in force against Hermia (this law not 
extending beyond the boundaries of the city,) he 
proposed to Hermia, that she should steal out of 
her father's house that night, and go with him to 
his aunt's house, where he would marry her. " I 
will meet you," said Lysander, " in the wood a 
few miles without the city; in that delightful 
wood, where we have so often wallced with Helena 
in the pleasant month of May." 

To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed; and 
she told no one of her intended flight but her 
friend Helena. Helena (as maidens v/iH do fool- 
ish things for love) very ungenerously resolved to 
go and teJl this to Demetrius, though she could 
hope no benefit from betraying her friend's secret, 
but the poor pleasure of following her faithless 
lover to the wood; for she well knew that Deme- 
trius would go thither in pursuit of Hermia. 

The wood, in which Lysander ^nd Hermia 



26 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

proposed to meet, was the favourite haunt of those 
little beings known by the name of Fairies. 

Oberon the king, and Titania the queen, of the 
Fairies, with all their tiny train of followers, ih 
this wood held their midnight revels. 

Between this little king and queen of sprites 
there happened, at this time, a sad disagreement: 
they never met by moonlight in the shady walks 
of this pleasant wood, but they were quarrelling, 
till all their fairy elves would creep into acorn- 
cups and hide themselves for fear. 

The cause of this unhappy disagreement was 
Titania' s refusing to give Oberon a little change- 
ling boy, whose mother had been Titania's friend; 
and upon her death the fairy queen stole the child 
from its nurse, and brought him up in the woods. 

The night on which the lovers were to meet in 
this wood, as Titania was walking with some of 
her maids of honour, she met Oberon attended 
by his train of fairy courtiers. 

"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania," said 
the fairy king. The queen replied, " What, jea- 
lous Oberon, is it you? Fairies, skip hence; I 
have forsworn his company." " Tarry, rash fairy," 
said Oberon; " am not I thy lord? Why does Ti- 
tania cross her Oberon? Give me your little 
changeling boy to be my page." 

" Set your heart at rest," answered the queen; 
'' your whole fairy kingdom buys not the boy of 
me." She then left her lord in great anger. 
" Well, go your way," said Oboron: '' before the 
morning dawns I will torment you for this injury." 

Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite 
and privy counsellor. 

Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM. 27 

Goodfellow) was a shrewd and knavish sprite, 
that used to play comical pranks in the neigh- 
bouring villages; sometimes getting into the dai- 
ries and skimming the milk, sometimes plunging 
his light and airy form into the butter-churn, and 
while he was dancing his fantastic shape in the 
churn, in vain the dairy-maid would labour to 
chano-e her cream into butter: nor had the villao^e 
swains any better success; whenever Puck chose 
to play his freaks in the brewing copper, the ale 
was sure to be spoiled. When a few good neigh- 
bours were met to drink some comfortable ale to- 
gether, Puck would jump into the bowl of ale in 
the likeness of a roasted crab, and when some old 
goody was going to drink, he would bob against 
her lips, and spill the ale over her withered chin; 
and presently after, when the same old dame was 
gravely seating herself to tell her neighbours a 
sad and melancholy story. Puck would slip her 
three-legged stool from under her, and down top- 
pled the poor old woman, and then the old gos- 
sips would hold their sides and laugh at her, and 
swear they never w^asted a merrier hour. 

" Come hither. Puck," said Oberon to this lit- 
tle merry wanderer of the night; "fetch me the 
flower which maids call Love in Idlmess; the juice 
of that Httle purple flower laid on the eyelids of 
those who sleep, will make them, when they 
awake, dote on the first thing they see. Som.e of 
the juice of that flower I will drop on the eye- 
lids of my Titania wnen she is asleep; and the 
first thing she looks upon when she opens her 
eyes she will fall in love with, even though it be 
a lion, or a bear, a meddling monkey, or a busy 
ape: and before I will take this charm from off 



28 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

her sight, which I can do with another charm I 
know of, I will make her give me that boy to be 
my page." 

Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was 
highly diverted with this intended frolic of his 
master, and ran to seek the flower; and while 
Oberon was waiting the return of Puck, he ob- 
served Demetrius and Helena enter the wood: he 
overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena for fol- 
lowing him, and after many unkind words on his 
part, and gentle expostulations from Helena, re- 
minding him of his former love and professions 
of true faith to her, he left her (as he said) to the 
mercy of the wild beasts, and she ran after him 
as swiftly as she could. 

The fairy king, who was always friendly to 
true lovers, felt great compassion for Helena; and 
perhaps, as Lysander said they used to waUi by 
moonlight in this pleasant wood, Oberon might 
have seen Helena in those happy times when she 
was beloved by Demetrius. However that might 
be, when Puck returned v/ith the little purple 
flower, Oberon said to his favourite, " Take a part 
of this flower: there has been a sweet Athenian 
lady here, who is in love with a disdainful youth; 
if you find him sleeping, drop some of the love- 
juice in his eyes, but contrive to do it when she 
is near him, that the first thing he sees when he 
awakes may be this despised lady. You will 
know the man by the Athenian garments which 
he wears." Puck promised to manage this matter 
very dexterously; and then Oberon went, unper- 
ceived by Titania, to her bower, where she was 
preparing to go to rest. Her fairy bower was a 
bank, wheve grew wild thyme, cowslips, and swee^ 



A MIDSUINIMER NIGHT's DREAM. 29 

violets, under a canopy of woodbine, musk-ros^es, 
and eglantine. There Titania always slept some 
part of the night; her coverlet the enamelled skin 
of a snake, which, though a small raantle, was 
wide enough to wrap a fairy in. 

He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, 
how they were to employ themselves while she 
slept. " Some of you," said her majesty, " must 
kill cankers in the musk-rose buds, and some 
wage war with the bats for their leathern wings, 
to make my small elves coats; and some of you 
keep watch that the clamorous owl, that nightly 
hoots, come not near me: but first sing me to 
sleep." Then they began to sing this song:- 

You spotted snakes with double tongue, 
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; 
Newts and bUnd-worms, do no wrong, 
Come not near our Fairy Queen. 
Philomel, with melody, 
Sing in your sweet lullaby, 
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby: 
Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, 
Come our lovely lady nigh; 
So good night with lullaby. 

When the fairies had sung their queen asle-^r 
with this pretty lullaby, they left her, to perform 
the important services she had enjoined them. 
Oberon then softly drew near his Titania, and 
dropped some of the love-juice on her eyelids, 
saying, 

What thou seest when thou dost walce, 
Do it for thy true-love take. 

But to return to Hermia, who made her escape 
out of her father's house that nigiit, to avoid the 
death she was doomed to for refusing to marry 
3* 



30 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Demetrius. When she entered the wood, she 
found her dear Lysander waiting for her, to con- 
duct her to his aunt's house; but before they had 
passed half through the wood, H^rmia was so 
much fatigued, that Lysander, who was very care- 
ful of this dear lady, who had proved her affec- 
tion for him even by hazarding her life for his 
sake, persuaded her to rest till morning on a bank 
of soft moss, and lying down himself on the 
ground at some little distance, they soon fell fast 
asleep. Here they were found by Puck, who 
seeing a handsome young man asleep, and per- 
ceiving that his clothes were made in the Athe- 
nian fashion, and that a pretty lady was sleeping 
near him, concluded that this must be the Athe- 
nian maid and her disdainful lover whom Oberon 
had sent him to seek; and he naturally enough 
conjectured that, as they were alone together, she 
must be the first thing he would see when he 
awoke: so without more ado, he proceeded to pour 
some of the juice of the little purple flower into 
his eyes. But it so fell out, that Helena came 
that way, and, instead of Hermia, was the first 
object Lysander beheld when he opened his eyes: 
and strange to relate, so powerful was the love- 
charm, all his love for Hermia vanished away, and 
Lysander fell in love with Helena. 

Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the 
blunder Puck committed would have been of no 
consequence, for he could not love that faithful 
lady too well; but for poor Lysander to be forced 
by a fairy love-charm to forget his own true Her- 
mia, and to run after another lady, and leave Her- 
mia asleep quite alone in a wood at midnight, was 
a sad chance indeed. 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM. 31 

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has 
been before related, endeavoured to keep pace 
with Demetrius when he ran away so rudely from 
her; but she could not continue this unequal race 
long, men being always better runners in a long 
race than ladies. Helena soon lost sight of De- 
metrius; and as she was wandering about, deject- 
ed and forlorn, she arrived at the place where Ly- 
sander was sleeping. "Ah!" said she, " this is 
Lysander lying on the ground: is he dead or 
asleep?" Then gently touching him, she said^ 
" Good sir, if you are alive, awake." Upon this 
Lysander opened his eyes, and (the love-charm 
beginning to work) immediately addressed her in 
terms of extravagant love and admiration; telling 
her, she as much excelled Hermia in beauty as a 
dove does a raven, and that he would run through 
fire for her sv,'eet sake; and many more such lover- 
like speeches. Helena knowing Lysander was 
her friend Hermia' s lover, and that he was solemn- 
ly engaged to marry her, was in the utmost rage 
when she heard herself addressed in this manner; 
for she thought (as well she might) that Lysander 
was making a jest of her. "0!" said she, " why 
was I born to be mocked and scorned by every 
one? Is it not enough, is it not enough, young 
man, that I can never get a sweet look or a kind 
word from Demetrius; but you, sir, must pretend 
in this disdainful manner to court me? I thought, 
Lysander, you were a lord of more true gentle- 
ness." Saying these words in great anger, she ran 
av/ay; and Lysander followed her, quite forgetful 
of his own Hermia, who was still asleep. 

When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright 
at findino; herself alone. She wandered about the 



32 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

wood, not knowing what was become of Lysander, 
or which way to go to seek for him. In the mean 
time Demetrius, not being able to find Hermia and 
his rival Lysander, and fatigued with his fruitless 
search, was observed by Oberon fast asleep. Obe- 
ron had learnt by some questions he had asked of 
Puck, that he had applied the love-charm to the 
wrong person's eyes; and now, having found the 
person first intended, he touched the eyelids of the 
sleeping Demetrius with the love-juice, and he in- 
stantly awoke; and the first thing he saw being 
Helena, he, as Lysander had done before, began 
to address love-speeches to her; and just at that 
moment Lysander followed by Hermia (for through 
Puck's unlucky mistake it was now become Her- 
mia' s turn to run after her lover,) made his appear- 
ance; and then Lysander and Demetrius, both 
speaking together, made love to Helena, they be- 
ing each one under the influence of the same po- 
tent charm. 

The astonished Helena thought that Demetrius, 
Lysander, and her once dear friend Hermia, were 
all in a plot together to make a jest of her. 

Hermia was as much surprised as Helena; she 
knew not why Lysander and Demetrius, who both 
before loved her, were now become the lovers of 
Helena; and to Hermia the matter seemed to be 
no jest. 

The ladies, who before had always been the' 
dearest of friends, now feU to high words together. 

"Unkind Hermia," said Helena, "it is you 
have set Lysander on, to vex me with mock praises; 
and your other lover Demetrius, who used almost 
to spurn me with his foot, have you not bid him 
call me Goddess, Nymph, rare, precious, and ce- 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM. 33 

lestial? He would not speak thus to me, whom he 
hates, if you did not set him on to make a jest of 
me. Unkind Hermia; to join with men in scorn- 
ing your poor friend. Have you forgot our 
school-day friendship? How often, Hermia, have 
we two, sitting on one cushion, both singing one 
song, with our needles working the same flower, 
both on the same sampler wrought; growing up 
together in fashion of a double cherry, scarcely 
seeming parted? Hermia, it is not friendly in you, 
it is not maidenly to join with men in scorning 
your poor friend." 

" I am amazed at your passionate words," said 
Hermia: " I scorn you not; it seems you scorn 
me." "Ay, do," returned Helena, "persevere, 
counterfeit serious looks, and make mouths at me 
when I turn my back; then wink at each other, 
and hold the sweet jest up. If you had any pity, 
grace, or manners, you would not use me thus." 

While Helena and Hermia were speaking these 
angry words to each other, Demetrius and Lysan- 
der left them, to fight together in the wood for the 
love of Helena. 

When they found the gentlemen had left them, 
they departed, and once more wandered weary in 
the wood in search of their lovers. 

As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, who 
with little Puck had been listening to their quar- 
rel-s, said to him, "This is your negligence. Puck; 
or did you do this wilfully?" " Believe me, king 
of shadows," answered Puck, "it was a mistake: 
did not you tell me I should know the man by 
his Athenian garments? However, I am not sorry 
this has happened, for I think their jangling 
makes excellent sport." " You heard," said Obe- 



31 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

ron, " tliat Demetrius and Lysander are gone to 
seek a convenient place to fight in. I command 
you to overhang the night with a thick fog, and 
lead these quarrelsome lovers so astray in the 
dark, that they shall not be able to find each 
other. Counterfeit each of their voices to the 
other, and with bitter taunts provoke them to fol- 
low you, while they think it is their rival's tongue 
they hear. See you do this, till they are so weary 
they can go no farther; and when you find they 
are asleep, drop the juice of this other flower into 
Lysander' s eyes, and when he awakes he will 
forget his new love for Helena, and return to his 
old passion for Hermia; and then the two fair la- 
dies may each one be happy with the man she 
loves, and they will think all that has passed a 
vexatious dream. About this quickly, Puck; and 
I will go and see what sweet love my Titania has 
found." 

Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing 
a clown near her, who had lost his way in the 
wood, and was likewise asleep: "This fellow," 
said he, " shall be my Titania' s true-love;" and 
clapping an ass's head over the clown's, it seemed 
to fit him as weU as if it had grown upon his own 
shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's head 
on very gently, it awakened him, and rising up, 
unconscious. of what Oberon had done to him, he 
went towards the bower Avhere the fairy queen 
slept. 

" Ah! what angel is that I see?" said Titania, 
opening her eyes, and the juice of the little pur- 
ple flower beginning to take eifect: "Are you 
as wise as you are beautiful?" 

" Why, mistress," said the foohsh clown, " if I , 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM. 35 

have wit enough to find the v/ay out of this wood, 
[ have enough to serve my turn." 

" Out of the wood do not desire to go," said 
the enamoured queen. " I am a spirit of no com- 
mon rate. I love you. Go with me, and I will 
give you fairies to attend upon you." 

She then called four of her fairies: their names 
were, Pease-blossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mus- 
tard-seed. 

"Attend," said the queen, "upon this sweet 
gentleman; hop in his walks, and gambol in his 
sight; feed him with grapes and apricots, and 
steal for him the honey-bags from the bees. Come, 
sit with me," said she to the clown, "and let me 
play with your amiable hairy cheeks, my beauti- 
ful ass! and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle 

joy!" 

" Where is Pease-blossom?" said the ass-headed 
cloAvn; not much regardmg the fairy queen's court- 
ship, but very proud of his new attendants. 

" Here, sir," said little Pease-blossom. 

" Scratch my head," said the clown. " Where 
is Cobweb?" 

" Here, sir," said Cobweb. 

"Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, 
kill me the red humble-bee on the top of that 
thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me 
the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much 
in the action, Mr. Cobweb, and take care th(! 
honey-bag break not; I should be sorry to have 
you overflown with a honey-bag. Where is Mus- 
tard-seed?" 

" Here, sir," said Mustard-seed; " what is your 
wiU?" 

"Nothing," said the clown, "good Mr. Mus- 



36 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

tfird-seed, but to help Mr. Pease-blossom to scratch: 
I must go to a barber's, Mr. Mustard-seed, for 
methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face." 

" My sweet love," said the queen, "what will 
you have to eat? I have a venturous fairy shall 
seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch you some new 
nuts." 

" I had rather have a handful of dried pease,' 
said the clown, who with his ass's head had got 
an ass's appetite. " But, I pray, let none of your 
people disturb me, for I have a mind to sleep." 

"Sleep, then," said the queen, "and I will 
wind you in my arms. O how I love you! How 
I dote upon you!" 

When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in 
the arms of his queen, he advanced within her 
sight, and reproached her with having lavished 
her favours upon an ass. 

This she could not deny, as the clown was then 
sleeping within her arpis, with his ass's head 
crowned by her with flowere. 

When Oberon had teased her for some time, he 
again demanded the changeling-boy; which she, 
ashamed of being discovered by her lord with her 
new favourite, did not dare to refuse him. 

Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he 
had so long wished for to be his page, took pity 
on the disgraceful situation into which, by his 
merry contrivance, he had brought his Titania, 
and threw some of the juice of the other flower 
into her eyes; and the fairy queen immediately 
recovered her senses, and wondered at her late 
dotage, saying how she now loathed the sij^'-t of 
the strange monster. 

Oberon hkewise took the ass's head from olf the 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM. 37 

clown, and left hira to finish his nap with his o^^ti 
fool's head upon his shoulders. 

Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly re- 
conciled, he related to her the history of the 
lovers, and their midnight quarrels; and she 
agreed to go with him, and see the end of tl eir 
adventures. 

The fairy king and queen found the lovers and 
their fair ladies, at no great distance from each 
other, sleeping on a grass-plot; for Puck, to make 
amends for his former mistake, had contrived with 
the utmost diligence to bring them all to the same 
spot, unknown to each other; and he had care- 
fully removed the charm from off the eyes of 
Lj'sander with the antidote the fair}^ kin-g gave 
to him. 

Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Ly- 
sander asleep so near her, was looking at him 
and wondering at his strange inconstancy. Ly- 
sander presently opening his eyes, and seeing his 
dear Hermia, recovered his reason which the 
fairy-charm had before clouded, and with his rea- 
son, his love for Hermiia; and they began to talk 
over the adventures of the night, doubting if these 
things had really happened, or if they had both 
been dreaming the same bewildering dream. 

Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake; 
and a sweet sleep having quieted Helena's dis- 
turbed and angry spirits, she listened with delight 
to the professions of love which Demetrius stiL 
made to her, and which, to her surprise as well 
as pl-easure, she began to perceive were sincere. 

These fair night- wan-dering ladies, now no lon- 
ger rivals, became once miore true friends; all the 
unkind w^ords wdiicli had passed were forgiven, 
4 



68 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

and tliej calmly consulted together what was best 
to be done in their present situation. It was soon 
agreed that, as Demetrius had given up his pre- 
tensions to Hermia, he should endeavour to pre- 
vail upon her father to revoke the cruel sentence 
of death which had been passed against her. De- 
metrius was preparing to return to Athens for this 
friendly purpose, when they were surprised with 
the sight of Egeus, Hermia' s father, who came 
to the wood in pursuit of his runaway daughter. 

When Egeus understood that Dem.etrius would 
not no^Y marry his daughter, he no longer oppos- 
ed her marriage v/ith Lysander, but gave his con- 
sent that they should be wedded on the fourth 
day from that time, being the same day on which 
Hermia had been condemned to lose her life; and 
on that same day Helena joyfully agreed to marry 
her beloved and now faithful Demetrius. 

The fauy king and queen, who were invisible 
spectators of this reconciliation, and now saw the 
happy ending of the lovers' history brought about 
through the good offices of Oberon, received so 
much pleasure, that these kind spirits resolved to 
celebrate the approaching nuptials with sports and 
revels throughout their fairy kingdom. 

And now, if any are offended with this story 
of fairies and their pranks, as judging it incredi- 
ble and strange, they have only to think that they 
have been asleep and dreaming, and that all these 
ridventu.res were visions which they saw in their 
sleep: and I hope none of my readers will be so 
mireasonable as to be offended with a pretty harm- 
less Midsummer Night's Dream. 



THE WINTER'S TALE. 

Leontes, king of Sicily, and his queen, the 
beautiful and virtuous Hermione, once lived in 
the greatest harmony together. So happy was 
Leontes in the love of this excellent lady, that 
he had no wish ungratified, except that he some- 
times desired to see again, and to present to his 
queen., his old companion and schoolfellow, Polix- 
enes, king of Bohemia. Leontes and PoUxenes 
were brought up together from their infancy, but 
being by the death of their fathers called to reign 
over their respective kingdoms, they had not met 
for many years, though they frequently inter- 
changed gifts, letters, and loving embassies. 

At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes 
came from Bohemia to the Sicilian court, to make 
his friend Leontes a visit. 

At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to 
Leontes. He recommended the friend of his 
youth to the queen's particular attention, and 
seemed in the presence of his dear friend and 
old companion to have his felicity quite complet- 
ed. They talked over old times; their school- 
days and their youthful pranks were remembered, 
and recounted to Hermione, who always took a 
cheerful part in these conversations. 

When-, after a long stay, Polixenes was prepar- 
ing to depart, Hermione, at the desire of her hus- 
band, joined her entreaties to his that Polixenes 
would [)rolong his visit. 

And nov/ beg-an this g-ood queen's sorrow; for 



40 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Polixenes refusing to stay at the request cf Leon- 
tes, was won over by Hermione's gentle and per- 
suasive words to put off his departure for some 
weeks longer. Upon this, although Leontes had 
so long known the integrity and honourable prin- 
ciples of his friend Polixenes, as well as the ex- 
cellent disposition of his virtuous queen, he was 
seized v/ith an ungovernable jealousy. Every at- 
tention Hermione showed to PoHxenes, though by 
her husband's particular desire, and merely to 
please him, increased the unfortunate king's jea- 
lousy; and from being a loving and a true friend, 
and the best and fondest of husbands, Leontes 
became suddenly a savage and inhum.an monster. 
Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of his court, 
and felling him of the suspicion he entertained, 
he commanded him to poison Polixenes. 

Camillo was a good man; and he, well know- 
ing that the jealousy of Leontes had not the 
slightest foundation in truth, instead of poisoning 
Pohxenes, acquainted him with the king his mas- 
ter's orders, and agreed to escape with him out 
of the Sicihan dominions; and Polixenes, with 
the assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his own 
kingdom of Bohemia, where Camillo hved from 
that time in the king's court, and became the 
chief friend and favourite of Polixenes. 

The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous 
Leontes still more; he went to the queen's apart- 
ment, where the good lady was sitting with hei 
little son Mamillus, who was just beginning to 
tell one of his best stories to amuse his mother, 
when the king entered, and taking the child away, 
sent Hermione to prison. 

Mamillus, though but a very young child, loved 



THE winter's tale. 41 

his mother tenderly; arxd when he saw her so 
dishonoured, and found she was taken from him 
to be put into a prison, he took it deeply to heart, 
and drooped and pined away by slow degrees, 
losing his appetite and his sleep, till it was thought 
his grief ^^ould kill him. 

The king, when he had sent his queen to pri- 
son, commanded Cleomenes and Dion, two Sici- 
lian lords, to go to Delphos, there to inquire ol 
the oracle at the temple of Apollo, if his queen 
had been unfaithful to him. 

When Hermione had been a short time in pri- 
son, she was brought to bed of a daughter; and 
the poor lady received much comfort from the 
sight of her pretty baby, and she said to it, '' My 
poor little prisoner, I am as innocent as you are." 

Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spi- 
rited Paulina, who was the wife of Antigonus, a 
Sicilian lord: and when the lady Paulina heard 
her royal mistress was brought to bed, she went 
to the prison where Hermione was confined; and 
she said to Emilia, a lady who attended upon 
Hermione, "I pray you, Emilia, tell the good 
queen, if her majesty dare trust me with her little 
babe, I will carry it to the king its father; we do 
not know how he may soften at the sight of his 
innocent child." " Most w^orthy madam," replied 
Emilia, " I will acquaint the queen with your no- 
ble offer; she was wishing to-day that she had 
any friend who would venture to present the child 
to the king." " And tell her," said Paulina, "that 
I will speak boldly to Leontes in her defence." 
" May you be forever blessed," said Emulia, "for 
your kindness to our gracious queen!" Emilia 
then went to Hermione, who joyfully gave up hei 
4* 



42 . TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

baby to the care of Paulina, for she had feared 
that no one would dare venture to present the 
child to its father. 

Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing 
hers-elf into the king's presence, notwithstanding 
Ler husband, fearing the king's anger, endeavour- 
ed to prevent her, she laid the babe at its father's 
feet, and Paulina made a noble speech to the 
king in defence of Hermione, and she reproached 
him severely for his inhumanity, and implored 
him to have mercy on his innocent wife and 
child. But Paulina's spirited remonstrances only 
aggravated Leontes's displeasure, and he ordered 
her husband Antigonus to take her from his pre- 
sence. 

When Paulina went away, she left the little 
baby at its father's feet, thinking, when he was 
alone with it, he would look upon it, and have 
pity on its helpless innocence. 

The good Paulina was mistaken; for no sooner 
was she gone than the merciless father ordered 
Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take the child, 
and carry it out to sea, and leave it upon some 
desert shore to perish. 

Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well 
obeyed the orders of Leontes; for he immediately 
carried the child on ship-board, and put out to sea, 
intending to leave it on the first desert coast he 
could find. 

So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilf: 
of Hermione, that he would not wait for the re 
tura of Cleomenes and Dion, whom he had seni 
to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphos; bul 
before the queen v/as recovered from her lying-in. 
and from her grief for the loss of her precicftis 



THE winter's tale. 43 

baby, he had her brought to a pubhc trial before 
all the lords and nobles of his court. And when 
all the great lords, the judges, and all the nobihty 
of the land were assembled together to try Her- 
mione, and that unhappy queen was standing as 
a prisoner before her subjects to receive their 
judgment, Cleomenes and Dion entered the as- 
sembly, and presented to the king the answer of 
the oracle sealed up; and Leontes commanded 
the seal to be broken, and the words of the oracle 
to be read aloud, and these were the words: — 
" Hermione is innocent, Polixenes blameless, Ca- 
millo a true subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant, and 
the king shall live without an heir if that vjhich is 
lost be not founds The king would give no credit 
to the words of the oracle: he said it was a false- 
hood invented by the queen's friends, and he de- 
sired the judge to proceed in the trial of the 
queen; but while Leontes was speaking, a man 
entered and told him that the prince Mamillus, 
hearing his mother was to be tried for her life, 
struck with grief and shame, had suddenly died. 

Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this 
dear affectionate child, who had lost his life in 
sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted; and Leontes, 
pierced to the heart by the news, began to feel 
pity for his unhappy queen, and he ordered Pau- 
lina, and the ladies who were her attendants, to 
take her away, and use means for her recovery. 
Paulina soon returned, and told the king that 
Hermione was dead. 

When Leontes neard that the queen was dead, 
he repented of his cruelty to her; and now that 
he thought his ill usage had broken Hermione's 
heart, he believed her innocent; and he now 



44 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

thought the words of the oracle were true, as he 
knew "if that which was lost was not found," 
which he concluded was Lis young daughter, he 
should be without an heir, the young prince Ma- 
millus being dead; and he would give his king- 
dom now to recover his lost daughter: and Leon- 
tes gave himself up to remorse, and passed many 
years in mournful thoughts and repentant grief. 

The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant 
princess out to sea, was driven by a storm upon 
the coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom of the 
good king Pohxenes. Here Antigonus landed, 
and here he left the little baby. 

Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Le- 
ontes where he had left his daughter, for as he 
was going back to the ship, a bear came out of 
the woods, and tore him to pieces; a just punish- 
ment on him for obeying the wicked order of 
Leontes. 

The child was dressed in rich clothes and jew- 
els: for Hermione had made it very fine when 
she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus had pinned 
a paper to its mantle, with the name of Perdita 
written thereon, and words obscurely intimating 
its high birth and untoward fate. 

This poor deserted baby was found by a shep- 
herd. He was a humane man, and so he carried 
the little Perdita home to his wife, who nursed it 
tenderly: but poverty tempted the shepherd to 
conceal the rich prize he had found: therefore he 
left that part of the country, that no one might 
know where he got his riches, and with part of 
Perdita' s jewels he bought herds of sheep, and 
became a wealthy shepherd He brought up Per- 



THE WINTER S TALE. 45 

dita as his own child, and she knew not she was 
any other than a shepherd's daughter. 

The Uttle Perdita grew up a lovely maiden; and 
though she had no better education than that of 
a shepherd" s daughter, yet so did the natural graces 
she inherited from her royal mother shine forth in 
her untutored mind, that no one from her beha- 
viour would have known she had not been brought 
up in her father's court. 

Folixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only 
son, whose name was Florizel. As this young 
prince was hunting near the shepherd's dwelling, 
he saw the old man's supposed daughter; and the 
beauty, modesty, and queen-like deportment of 
Perdita caused him instantly to fall in love with 
her. He soon, under the name of Doricles, and 
in the disguise of a private gentleman, became a 
constant visiter at the old shepherd's house. 

Florizel's frequent absences from court alarmed 
Polixenes; and setting people to watch his son, 
he discovered his love for the shepherd's fair 
daughter. 

Pohxenes then called for Camillo, the faithful 
Camillo, who had preserved his life from the fury 
of Leontes; and desired that he would accompany 
him to the house of the shepherd, the supposed 
father of Perdita. 

Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived 
at the old shepherd's dweUing while they were 
celebrating the feast of sheep-shearing; and though 
they were strangers, yet at the sheep-shearing 
every guest being made welcom.e, they were in- 
vited to walk in, and join in the general festivity 

Nothing but mirth and jollity was going for- 
ward. I'ables v/ere spread, and great preparations 



46 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

were making for the rustic feast. Some lads and 
lasses were dkncing on the green before the house, 
while others of the young men were buying ri- 
bands, gloves, and such toys, of a pedler at the 
door. 

While this busy scene was going forward, Flo- 
rizel and Perdita sat quietly in a retired corner, 
seemingly more pleased with the conversation of 
each other, than desirous of engaging in the sports 
and silly amusements of those around them. 

The king was so disguised that it was impossi- 
ble his son could know him; he therefore advanc- 
ed near enough to hear the conversation. The 
simple yet elegant manner in which Perdita con- 
versed with his son did not a little surprise Po- 
lixenes: he said to Camillo, " This is the prettiest 
low-born lass I ever saw; nothing she does or says 
but looks like something greater than herself, too 
noble for this place." 

Camillo replied, " Indeed she is the very queen 
of curds and cream." 

" Pray, my good friend," said the king to the 
old shepherd, "what fair swain is that talking 
with your daughter?" "The3^call him Doricles," 
replied the shepherd. "He says he loves my 
daugiiter; and to speak truth, there is not a kiss 
to choose which loves the other best. If young 
Doricles can get her, she shall bring him that he 
little dreams of:" meaning the remainder of Per- 
dita' s jewels; which, after he had bought herds 
of sheep with part of them, he had carefully 
hoarded up for her marriage portion. 

Polixenes then addressed his son. " How now, 
young man!" said he: " your heart seems full of 
something that takes off your mind from feasting. 



THE winter's tale. 47 

When I was young, I used to load my love with 
presents; but 3^ou have let the pedler go, and 
have bought your lass no toy." 

The young prince, who little thought he Avas 
talking to the king his father, replied, " Old sir, 
she prizes not such trifles; the gifts which Perdita 
expects from me are locked up in my heart." 
Then turning to Perdita, he said to her, " hear 
me Perdita, before this ancient gentleman, who 
it seems was once tiimself a lover; he shall hear 
what I profess." Florizel then called upon the 
old stranger to be a witness to a solemn promise 
of marriage which he mxade to Perdita, saying to 
Polixenes, " I pray you, mark our contract." 

" Mark your divorce, young sir," said the king, 
discovering him.self. Polixenes then reproached 
his son for daring to contract himself to this low- 
born maiden, calling Perdita " shepherd' s-brat, 
sheep-hook," and other disrespectful names; and 
threatening, if ever she suffered his son to see 
her again, he would put her, and the old shep- 
herd her father, to a cruel death. 

The king then left Ihem in great wrath, and 
ordered Camiilo to follow him with prince Flo- 
rizel. 

When the king had departed, Perdita, whose 
royal nature was roused by Polixenes' s reproach- 
es, said, "Though we are all undone, I was not 
]nuch afraid; and once or twdce I was about to 
speak, and tell him plainly that the selfsame sun 
which shines upon his palace, hides not his face 
from our cottage, but looks on both alike." Then 
sorrowfully she said, " But now I am awakened 
from this dream, I will queen it no farther. Leave 
me, sir; I will go milk my ewes, and weep." 



48 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

The kind-hearted Camillo wcbs charmed with 
the spirit and propriety of Perdita's behaviour; 
and perceiving that the young prince was too 
deeply in love to give up his mistress at the com- 
mand of his royal father, he thought of a way to 
befriend the lovers, and at the same time to exe- 
cute a favourite scheme he had in his mind. 

Camillo had long known that Leontes, the king 
of Sicily, was become a true penitent; and though 
Camillo was now the favoured friend of king Po- 
lixenes, he could not help wishing once more to 
see his late royal master and his native home. 
He therefore proposed to Florizel and Perdita, 
that they should accompany him to the Sicilian 
court, Avhere he would engage Leontes should 
protect them, till, through his mediation, they 
could obtain pardon from Polixenes, and his con- 
sent to their marriage. 

To this proposal they joyfully agreed; and 
Camillo, who conducted every thing relative to 
their flight, allowed the old shepherd to go along 
with them. 

The shepherd took with him the remainder of 
Perdita's jewels, her baby clothes, and the paper 
which he had found pinned to her mantle. 

After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Per- 
dita, Camillo arid the old shepherd, arrived in 
safety at the court of I.eontes. Leontes, who still 
mourned his dead Hermione and his lost child, 
received Camillo with great kindness, and gave 
a cordial welcome to prince Florizel. But Per- 
dita, whom Florizel introduced as his princess, 
seemed to engross all Leontes's attention: per- 
ceiving a resemblance between her and his dead 
queen Hermione, his grief broke out afresh, and 



THE winter's tale. 49 

he said, such a lovely creature might his own 
daughter have been, if he had not so cruell}^ de- 
stroyed her. "And then too," said he to Flo- 
rizel, "I lost the society and friendship of jout 
brave father, ^\hom I now desire more than my 
life once again to look upon." 

When the old shepherd heard how much notice 
the king had taken of Perdita, and that he had 
lost a daughter, who was exposed in infancy, he 
fell to comparing the time when he found the 
little Perdita, with the manner of its exposure, 
the j'^wels and other tokens of its high birth; 
from all which it was impossible for him not to 
conclude, that Perdita and the king's lost daugh- 
ter were the same. 

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful 
Paulina, were present when the old shepherd re- 
lated to the king the manner in which he had 
found the child, and also the circumstance of 
Antigonus's death, he having seen the bear seize 
upon him. He showed the rich mantle in which 
Paulina remembered Hermione had wrapped the 
child; and he produced a jev/el which she remem- 
bered Hermione had tied about Perdita's neck; 
and he gave up the paper vv^hich Paulina knew to 
be the writing of her husband; it could not be 
doubted that Perdita was Leontes's ov/n daughter: 
but oh! the noble struggles of Paulina, between 
sorrow for her husband's death, and joy that tlie 
oracle was fulfilled, in the king's heir, his long- 
lost daughter, bemg found. When Leontes heard 
that Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow 
that he felt that Hermione was not living to be- 
hold her child, made him that he could say no- 



60 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

thing for a long time, but, " thy mother, thy 
mother!" 

Panhna interrupted this joyful yet distressful 
scene, with saying to Leqntes, that she had a 
statue, newly finished by that rare Italian master, 
Julio Romano, which was such a perfect resem- 
blance of the queen, that would his majesty be 
pleased to go to her house and look upon it, he 
would almost be ready to think it was Hermione 
herself Thither then they aU went; the king 
anxious to see the semblance of his Hermione, 
and Perdita lono;ino; to behold what the mother 
she never saw did look like. 

When Paulina drew back the curtain which 
concealed this famous statue, so perfectly did it 
resemble Hermione, that all the king's sorrow was 
renewed at the sight: for a long time he had no 
power to speak or move. 

'' I like your silence, my liege," said Paulina, 
" it the more shows your wonder. Is not this 
statue very like your queen?" 

At length the king said, " 0, thus she stood, 
even with such majesty, when I first wooed her. 
Rut yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as 
this statue looks." Paulina replied, " So much 
the more the carver's excellence, who has made 
the statue as Hermione would have looked had 
she been living now. But let me draw the cur- 
tain, sire, lest presently you think it moves." 

The king then said, " Do not draw the curtain! 
Would I were dead! See, Camillo, would you not 
think it breathed? Her eye seems to have motion 
in it." "I must draw the curtain, my liege," said 
Paulina. " You are so transported, you wiU per 
suade yourself the statue lives " ''0, sweet Pau- 



THE AVINTER's TALE. 51 

Una," said Leontes, "make me think so twenty 
years together! Still methmks there is an air 
comes from her. What fine chisel could ever yet 
cut breath? Let no man mock me, for I will kiss 
her." "Good my lord, forbear!" said Pauhna. 
''The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; you will 
stain your own with oily painting. Shall I draw 
the curtain?" "No, not these twenty years," 
said Leontes. 

Perdita, w^ho all this time had been kneeling, 
and beholding in silent admiration the statue of 
her matchless mother, said now^, "And so long 
could I stay here, looking upon my dear mother." 

"Either forbear this transport," said Paulina 
to Leontes, " and let me draw the curtain; or pre- 
pare yourself for more amazement. I can make 
the statue move indeed; ay, and descend from off 
the pedestal, and take you by the hand. But then 
you will think, which I protest I am not, that I 
am assisted by some wicked powers." 

"What you can make her do," said the asto- 
nished king, "I am content to look upon. What 
you can make her speak, I am content to hear; 
for it is as easy to make her speak as move." 

Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn 
music, which she had prepared for the purpose, 
to strike up; and to the amazement of all the be- 
holders, the statue came down from off the pe- 
destal, and threw its arms around Leontes's neck. 
The statue then began to speak, praying for bless- 
ings on her husband, and on her child, the newly 
found Perdita. 

No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes's 
neck, and blessed her husband and her child. 



52 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. . 

No wonder; for the statue was indeed Hermione 
herself, the real, the living queen. 

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the 
death of Hermione, thinking that the only means 
to preserve her royal mistress's life; and with the 
good Paulina, Hermione had lived ever since; 
never choosing Leontes should know she was liv- 
ing, till she heard Perdita was found; for though 
she had long forgiven the injuries which Leontes 
had done to herself, she could not pardon his 
cruelty to his infant daughter. 

His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost 
daughter found, the long-sorrowing Leontes could 
scarcely support the excess of his own happiness. 

Nothing but congratulations and affectionate 
speeches were heard on all sides. Now the de- 
lighted parents thanked prince Florizel for loving 
their lowly-seeming daughter; and now they 
blessed the good- old shepherd for preserving their 
child. Greatly did Camillo and Paulina rejoice, 
that they had lived to see so good an end of all 
their faithful services. 

And as if nothing should be wanting to com- 
plete this strange and unlooked-for joy, king Po- 
lixenes himself now entered the palace. 

When Polixenes first missed his son and Ca- 
millo, knowing that Camillo had long wished to 
leturn to Sicily, he conjectured he should find 
the fugitives here; and, following them with all 
speed, he happened lo arrive just at this, the hap- 
piest moment of Leontes's life. 

Polixenes took a part in the general joy; he 
forgave his friend Leontes the unjust jealousy he 
had conceived against him, and they once more 
loved each other with all the warmth of their first 



THE winter's tale. 53 

boyish friendship. And there was no fear that 
Polixenes would now oppose his son's marriage 
with Perdita. She was no " sheep-hook" now, 
but the heiress of the crown of Sicily. 

Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the 
long-suffering Hefmione rewarded. That excel- 
lent lady lived many years with her Leontes and 
her Perdita, the happiest of mothers and of queens 



5* 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 

There lived in the palace at Messina two la- 
dies, whose names were Hero and j^eatrice. Hero 
was the daughter, and Beatrice the niece, of Leo- 
nato, the governor of Messina. 

Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved to 
divert her cousin Hero, who was of a more seri- 
ous disposition, Vv^ith her sprightly sallies. What- 
ever was going forward was sure to make matter 
of mirth for the light-hearted Beatrice. 

At the time the history of these ladies com- 
mences, some young men of high rank in the 
army, as they were passing through Messina on 
their return from a war that was just ended, in 
which they had distinguished themselves by their 
great bravery, came to visit Leonato. Among 
these were Don Pedro, the prince of Arragon, 
and his friend Ciaudio, who was a loid of Flo- 
rence; and with them came the wild and witty 
Benedick, and he was a lord of Padua. 

These strangers had been at Messina before, 
and the hospi^ble governor introduced them to 
his daughter and his niece as their old friends and 
acquaintance. 

Benedick, the moment he entered the room, 
began a lively conversation with Leonato and the 
prince. Beatrice, who hked not to be left out of 
any discourse, interrupted Benedick with saying, 
"I wonder that you will still be talking, signior 
Benedick; nobody marks you." Benedick was 
just .sui'.h another rattle-brain as Beatrice, yet he 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 55 

was not pleased at this free salutation: he thought 
it did not become a well-bred lady to be so flip- 
pant Vv-ith her tongue; and he remembered, when 
he was last at Messina, that Beatrice used to se- 
lect him to make her merry jests upon. And as 
there is no one who so little likes to be made ? 
jest of as those who are apt to take the same li- 
berty themselves, so it was with Benedick and 
Beatrice; these two sharp wits never met in for- 
mer times but a perfect war of raillery was kept 
up between them, and they always parted mu- 
tually displeased with each other. Therefore 
when Beatrice stopped him in the middle of his 
discourse with telling him nobody marked what 
he was saying, Benedick, affecting not to have 
observed before that she was present, said, "What, 
my dear lady Disdain, are you yet living?" And 
now war broke out afresh between them, and a 
long jangling argument ensued, during which 
Beatrice, although she knew he had so well ap- 
proved his valour in the late war, said that she 
would eat all he had killed there: and observing 
the prince take delight in Benedick's conversa- 
tion, she called him "the prince's jester." This 
sarcasm sunk deeper into the mind of Benedick 
than all Beatrice had said before. The hint she 
gave him that he was a coward, by saying she 
would eat all he had killed, he did not regard, 
knowing himself to be a brave man: but there is 
nothing that great wits so much dread as the im- 
putation of buffoonery, because the charge comes 
sometimes a little too near the truth: therefore 
Benedick perfectly hated Beatrice, when she call- 
ed him " the prince's jester." 

The modest lady Hero was silent before the 



5b* TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

noble guests; and while Claudio was attentively 
obser\ing the improvement which time had made 
in her beauty, and was contemplating the exqui- 
site graces of her fine figure (for she was an ad- 
mirable young lady,) the prince was highly amus- 
ed with listening to the humorous dialogue be- 
tween Benedick and Beatrice; and he said in a 
whisper to Leonato, "This is a pleasant-spirited 
young lady. She were an excellent wife for 
Benedick." Leonato replied to this suggestion, 
" my lord, my lord, if they were but a week 
married, they would talk themselves mad." But 
though Leonato thought they would make a dis- 
cordant pair, the prince did not give up the idea 
of matchino; these two keen wits too-ether. 

When the prince returned w^ith Claudio from 
the palace, he found that the marriage he had de- 
vised between Benedick and Beatrice was riot 
the only one projected in that good company, for 
Claudio spoke in such terms of Hero, as made 
the prince guess at what was passing in his heart; 
and he liked it well, and he said to Claudio, "Do 
you affect Hero?" To this question Claudio re- 
plied, "O my lord, when I was last at Messina, 
I looked upon her with a soldier's eye, that liked, 
but had no leisure for loving; but now, in this 
happy time of peace, thoughts of war have left 
their places vacant in my mind, and in their room 
come, thronging soft and delicate thoughts, all 
prompting mie how fair young Hero is, reminding 
me that I liked her before I went to the wars." 
Claudio' s confession of his love for Hero so wrought 
upon the prince, that he lost no time in soliciting 
the consent of Leonato to accept of Claudio for 
a Gon -in-law. Leonato agreed to this proposal, 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 57 

aiiJ the prince found no great difficulty in per- 
suading the gentle Hero herself to listen to the 
suit of the noble Claudio, who was a lord of rare 
endowments, and highly accomphshed; and Clau- 
dio, assisted by his kind prince, soon prevailed 
upon Leonato to fix an early day for the celebra- 
tion of his marriage with Hero. 

Claudio was to wait but a few days before he 
was to be married to his fair lady; yet he com- 
plained of the interval being tedious, as indeed 
most 3'oung men are impatient, when they are 
waiting for the accomplishment of any event they 
have set their hearts upon: the prince therefore, 
to make the time seem short to him, proposed as 
a kind of merry pastime, that they should invent 
some artful scheme to make Benedick and Bea- 
trice fall in love with each other. Claudio enter- 
ed with great satisfaction into this v/hirn of the 
prince, and Leonato promised them his assistance, 
and even Hero said she would do any modest of- 
fice to help her cousin to a good husband. 

The device the prince invented was, that the 
gentlemen should make Benedick believe that 
Beatrice was in love with him, and that Hero 
should make Beatrice believe that Benedick was 
in love v/ith her. 

The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began their 
operations first; and, watching an opportunity 
when Benedick was quietly seated reading in an 
arbour, the prince and his assistants took tJieir 
station among the trees behind the arbour, so near 
that Benedick could not choose but hear all they 
said; and after some careless talk the prince said, 
" Come hither, Leonato. What Vv^as it you told 
me the other day — -that your niece Beatrice was 



58 TALES FKOM SHAKSPEARE. 

in love with signior Benedick? I did never thin]< 
that lady would have loved any man." "No, 
nor I neither, my lord," answered Leonato. " It 
is most wonderfid that she should so dote on Bene- 
dick, whom she in all outward behaviour seemed 
ever to dislike." Claudio confirmed all this, with 
sa3'ing that Kero had told him Beatrice was so in 
love with Benedick, that she would certainly die 
of grief, if he could not be brought to love her; 
which Leonato and Claudio seemed to agree was 
impossible, he having always been such a railer 
against ail fair ladies, and in particular against 
Beatrice. 

The prince affected to hearken to all this with 
great compassion for Beatrice, and he said, "It 
were good that Benedick were told of this." '• To 
what end?" said Claudio; " he would but make 
sport of it, and torment the poor lady worse." 
"And if he should," said the prince, " it were a 
good deed to hang him; for Beatrice is an excel- 
lent sweet lady, and exceeding wise in every 
thing but in loving Benedick." Then the prince 
motioned to his companions that they should walk 
on, and leave Benedick to m.editate upon v/hat 
he had overheard. 

Benedick had been listening with great eager- 
ness to this conversation; and he said to hiraselt 
when he heard Beatrice loved him, "Is it pos 
sible? Sits the wind in that corner?" And when 
the}^ were gone, he began to reason m this man- 
ner with himself "This can be no trick! they 
were very serious, and they have the truth from 
Hero, and seem to pity the lady. Love me! Why, 
it must be requited! I did never think to marry. 
But when I said I should die a bachelor, I did 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 59 

not think I should live to be married. They say 
the lady is virtuous aijd fair. She is so. And 
wise in every thing but in loving me. Why that 
is no great argument of her folly. But here comes 
Beatrice. By this day, she is a fair lady. I do 
spy some marks of love in her." Beatrice now 
approached him, and said with her usual tartness, 
•' Against my will I am sent to bid you come in 
to dinner." Benedick, w^ho never felt himself 
disposed to speak so politely to her before, re- 
plied, "Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains:" 
and when Beatrice, after two or three more rude 
speeches left him. Benedick thought he observed 
a concealed meaning of kindness under the un- 
civil words she uttered, and he said aloud, " If I 
do not take pity on her, I am a villain. If I do 
not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her 
picture." 

The gentleman being thus caught in the net 
they had spread for him, it was now Hero's turn 
to play her part with Beatrice; and for this pur- 
pose she sent for Ursula and Margaret, two gen- 
tlewomen who attended upon her, and she said 
to Margaret, " Good Margaret, run to the parlour; 
there you will find my cousin Beatrice talking 
wdth the prince and Claudio. Whisper in her 
ear, that I and Ursula are walking in the orchard, 
and that our discourse is all of her. Bid her steal 
into that pleasant arbour, where honey-suckles, 
ripened by the sun, like ungrateful minions, for- 
bid the sun to enter." This arbour, into which 
Hero desired Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the 
very same pleasant arbour where Benedick had 
so lately been an attentive listene :. "I will make 
her corne, I warrant, presently,' said Margaret. 



60 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARB. 

Hero, then taking Ursula with her into the or- 
chard, said to her, "Now Ursula, when Beatrice 
comes, we will walk up and down this alley, and 
our talk must be only of Benedick, and when I 
name him, let it be your part to praise him more 
than ever m.an did merit. My talk to you must 
be how Benedick is in love with Beatrice. Now 
begin; for look Vv^here Beatrice like a lapwing 
runs close by the ground, to hear our conference." 
They then began; Hero saying, as if in answer 
to something which Ursula had said, " No, truly, 
Ursula. She is too disdainful; her spirits are as 
coy as wild birds of the rock." "But are you 
sure," said Ursula, " that Benedick loves Beatrice 
so entirely?" Hero replied, " So says the prince, 
and my lord Claudio, and they entreated me to 
acquaint her with it; but I persuaded them, if 
they loved Benedick, never to let Beatrice know 
of it." " Certainly," replied Ursula, " it were not 
good she knew his love, lest she made sport of it." 
"Why, to say truth," said Hero, "I never yet 
saw a man, how wise soever, or noble, young or 
rarely featured, but she would dispraise hira." 
" Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable," 
said Ursula. " No," replied Hero, " but who dare 
tell her so? if I should speak, she would mock 
me into air." "0 you wrong your cousin," said 
Ursula: " she cannot be so much without true 
judgment, as to refuse so rare a gentleman as 
signior Benedick." " He hath an excellent good 
name," said Hero: "indeed he is the first man 
in Italy, always excepting my dear Claudio." 
And now, Hero giving her attendant a hint thai 
it was time to change the discourse, Ursula said, 
" And when are you to be married, madam?" 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 61 

Hero then told her, that she was to be married to 
Claudio the next day, and desired she would go 
in with her, and look at some new attire, as she 
wished to consult with her on what she would 
wear on the morrow. Beatrice, who had been 
listenino- with breathless eaojerness to this dia- 
logue, when they went away, exclaimed, " What 
fire is in my ears? Can this be true? Farewell, 
contempt, and scorn and maiden pride, adieu! 
Benedick, love on! I will requite you, taming my 
wild heart to your loving hand." 

It must have been a pleasant sight to see these 
old enemies converted into new and loving friends; 
a-nd to behold their fmst meeting after being 
cheated into mutual liking by the merry artifice 
of the good-humoured prince. But a sad reverse 
in the fortunes of Hero must now be thought of. 
The morrow, which was to have been her wed- 
ding day, brought sorrow on the heart of Hero 
and her good father Leonato. 

The prince had a half-brother, who came from 
the wars along with him to Messina. This bro- 
ther (his name was Don John) was a melancholy, 
discontented man, whose spirits seemed to labour 
in the contriving of villanies. He hated the 
prince his brother, and he hated Claudio, because 
he was the prince's friend, and determined to 
prevent Claudio' s marriage with Hero, only for 
the malicious pleasure of making Claudio and the 
pi* nee unhappy; for he knew the prince had set 
his heart upoii this marriage, almost as much as 
Claudio himself: and to effect this wicked pur- 
pose, he employed one Borachio, a man as bad as 
himself, whom he encouraged with the offer of 
a great reward. This Borachio paid his court 



62 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

to Margaret, Hero's attendant; and Don John, 
knowing this, prevailed upon him to make Mar- 
garet promise to talk with him from her lady's 
chamber window that night, after Hero was asleep, 
and also to dress herself in Hero's clothes, the 
better to deceive Claudio into the belief that it 
was Hero; for that was the end he meant to com- 
pass by this wicked plot. 

Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, 
and told them that Hero was an imprudent lady, 
and that she talked with men from her chamber- 
window at midnight. Now this was the evening 
before the wedding, and he offered to take them 
that night, where they should th'^mselves hear 
Hero discoursing with a man from her window; 
and they consented to go along with him, and 
Claudio said, " If I see any thing to-night why I 
should not marry her, to-morrow in the congrega- 
tion, where I intended to wed her, there will I 
shame her." The prince also said, "And as I 
assisted you to obtain her, I will join with you 
to disgrace her." 

When Don John brought them near Hero's 
chamber that night, they saw Borachio standing 
under the window, and they saw Margaret look- 
ing out of Hero's window, and heard her talking 
with Borachio; and Margaret being dressed in the 
same clothes they had seen Hero wear, the prince 
and Claudio believed it was the lady Hero herself. 

Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, when 
he had made (as he thought) this discovery. All 
his love for the innocent Hero was at once con- 
verted into hatred, and he resolved to expose her 
in the church, as he had said he would, the next 
day; and the prince agreed to this, thinking no 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 63 

punishment could be too severe for the naughty- 
lady, who talked with a man from her window 
the very ni£:ht before she was Q-oins: to be married 
to the noble Claudio. 

The next day, when they were all met to cele- 
brate the marriage, and Claudio and Hero were 
standing before the priest, and the priest, or friar, 
as he was called, was proceeding to pronounce 
the marriage ceremony, Claudio, in the most pas- 
sionate language, pi'oclaimed the guilt of the 
blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange words 
he uttered, said meekly, "Is my lord well, that 
he does speak so wide?" 

Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince, 
"My lord, why speak not you?" " What should 
I speak?" said th€ prince; "I stand dishonoured, 
that have gone about to link my dear friend to an 
unworthy woman. Leonato, upon my honour, 
myself, my brother, and this grieved Claudio, did 
see and hear her last night at midnight talk with 
a man at her chamber- window." 

Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, 
said, " This looks not like a nuptial." 

" True, O God!" replied the heart-struck Hero; 
and then this hapless lady sunk down in a faint- 
ing fit, to all appearance dead. The prince and 
Claudio left the church, without staying to see if 
Hero would recover, or at all regarding the dis 
tress into which they had thrown Leonato. So 
hard-hearted had their anger made them. 

Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to 
recover Hero from her swoon, saying, " How does 
the lady?" "Dead, I think," replied Beatrice in 
great agony, for she loved her cousin; and know- 
ing her virtuous principles, she believed nothing 



i~ 



64 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

of v/hat she had heard spoken against her. Not 
so the poor old father; he beheved the story of 
his child's shame, and it was piteous to hear him 
lamenting over her, as she lay like one dead be- 
fore him, wishing she might never more open 
her eyes. 

But the ancient friar was a wise n^an, and full 
of observation on human nature, and he had at- 
tentively marked the lady's countenance when 
she heard herself accused, and noted a thousand 
blushing shames to start into her face, and then 
he saw an angel-like whiteness bear away those 
blushes, and in her eye he saw a fire that did 
belie the error that the prince did speak against 
her maiden truth, and he said to the sorrowing 
father, " Call me a fool; trust not my reading, 
nor my observation; trust not my age, my reve- 
rence, nor my calling; if this sweet lady lie not 
guiltless here under some biting error." 

When Hero recovered from the swoon into 
which she had fallen, the friar said to her, — 
" Lady, what man is he you are accused of?" 
Hero replied, "They know that do accuse me; 
I know of none:" then turning to Leonato, she 
said, '' my father, if you can prove that any 
man has ever conversed with me at hours un- 
meet, or that 1 yesternight changed words with 
any creature, refuse me, hate me, torture me to 
death." 

"There is," said the friar, "some strange mis- 
understanding in the prince and Claudio; and 
then he counselled Leonato, that he should report 
that Hero was dead; and he said, that the death- 
like swoon in which they had left Hero, would 
make this easy of belief; and he also advised 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 65 

him, that he should put on mourning, and erect 
a monument for her, and do all rites that apper- 
tain to a burial. "What shall become of this?" 
saia Leonato; " What will this do?" The friar 
replied, "This report of her death shall change 
slander into pity: that is some good, but that is 
not all the good I hope for. When Claudio shall 
hear she died upon hearing his words, the idea 
of her life shall sweetly creep into his imagina- 
tion. Then shall he mourn, if ever love had in- 
terest in his heart, and wish he had not so ac- 
cused her: yea, though he thought his accusation 
true." 

Benedick now said, " Leonato, let the friar ad- 
vise you; and though you know how well I love 
the prince and Claudio, yet on my honour I will 
not reveal the secret to them." 

Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said 
sorrowfully, "I am so grieved, that the smallest 
twine may lead me." The kind friar then led 
Leonato and Hero away to comfort and console 
them, and Beatrice and Benedick remained alone; 
and this was the meeting from which their friends, 
who contrived the merry plot against them, ex- 
pected so much diversion; those friends w^ho were 
now overw^hehned with affliction, and from whose 
minds all thoughts of mxcrriraent seemed for ever 
banished. 

Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said, 
" Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?" 
" Yea, and I will w^eep a while longer," said Bea- 
trice. "Surely," said Benedick, "I do believe 
your fair cousin is wronged." " Ah!" said Beatrice 
" how much might that man deserve of me who 
would right her!" Benedick then said, " Is there 
6* 



I 



66 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

any way to show such friendship? I do love no 
thing in the world so well as you: is not that 
strange?" "It were as possible," said Beatrice, 
"for me to say I loved nothing in the world so 
well as you; but believe me not, and yet I lie 
not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I 
am sorry for my cousin." " By my sword," said 
Benedick, "you love me, and I protest I love 
you. Come, bid me do any thing for you." " Kill 
Claudio," said Beatrice. " Ha! not for the Avide 
world," said Benedick: for he loved his friend 
Claudio, and he believed he had been imposed 
upon. "Is not Claudio a villain, that has slan- 
dered, scorned, and dishonoured my cousin?" said 
Beatrice: " that I were a man!" "Hear me, 
Beatrice!" said Benedick. But Beatrice would 
hear nothing in Claudio' s defence; and she con- 
tinued to urge on Benedick to revenge her cou- 
sin's wrongs: and she said, " Talk with a man 
out of the window; a proper saying! Sweet Hero! 
she is wronged; she is slandered; she is undone. 
that I were a man for Claudio's sake! or that I 
had any friend, who would be a man for my sake! 
but valour is melted into courtesies and compli- 
ments. I cannot be a ttiMi with wishing, «there- 
fore I will die a woman with grieving." "Tarry, 
good Beatrice," said Benedick: "by this hand, I 
love you." " Use it for my love some other way 
than swearing by it," said Beatrice. "Think 3^ou 
on your soul, that Claudio has wronged Hero?" 
asked Benedick. "Yea," answered Beatrice; "as 
sure as I have a thought, or a soul." "Enough," 
said Benedick; " I am engaged; I will challenge 
him. I wiU kiss your hand, and so leave you. 
By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear ac- 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 67 

count! As you hear from me, so think of me. 
Go, comfort your cousin." 

While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading 
with Benedick, and working his gallant temper 
by the spirit of her angry words, to engage in the 
cause of Hero, and fight even with his dear friend 
Claudio, Leonato was challenging the prince and 
Claudio to answer with their swords the injury 
they had done his child, who, he affirmed, had 
died for grief. But they respected his age and his 
sorrow, and they said, " Nay, do not quarrel with 
us, good old man." And now came Benedick, 
and he also challenged Claudio to answer with 
his sword the injury he had done to Hero: and 
Claudio and the prince said to each other, "Bea- 
trice has set him on to do this." Claudio, never- 
theless, must have accepted this challenge of 
Benedick, had not the justice of Heaven at the 
moment brought to pass a better proof of the in- 
nocence of Hero than the uncertain fortune of a 
duel. 

While the prince and Claudio were yet talking 
of the challenge of Benedick, a magistrate brought 
Borachio as a prisoner before the prince. Bora- 
chio had been overheard talking with one of his 
companions of the mischief he had been employ- 
ed by' Don John to do. 

Borachio made a full confession to the prince 
in Claudio's hearing, that it was Margaret dressed 
in her lady's clothes that he had talked with 
from the window, w^hom they had mistaken for 
the lady Hero herself; and no doubt continued 
on the minds of Claudio and the prince of the 
innocence of Hero. If a suspicion had remain- 
ed, it must have been removed by the flight of 



68 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Don John, who, finding his villanies were detect 
ed, fled from Messina to avoid the just anger of 
his brother. 

The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved when 
he found he had falsely accused Hero, who, he 
thought, died upon hearing his cruel words; and 
the menfiory of his beloved Hero's image came 
over him, m the rare semblance that he loved it 
first; and the prince asking him if what he heard 
did not run like iron through his soul, he answer- 
ed, that he felt as if he had taken poison, while 
Borachio was speaking. 

And the repentant Claudio implored forgive- 
ness of the old man Leonato for the injury he 
had done his child; and promised, that whatever 
penance Leonato v/ould lay upon him for his 
fault in believing the false accusation against his 
betrothed wife, for her dear sake he would en- 
dure it. 

The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to 
marry the next morning a cousin of Hero's, who, 
he said, was now his heir, and in person very like 
Hero. Claudio, regarding the solemn promise he 
made to Leonato, said, he would marry this un- 
known lady, even though she were an Ethiop: 
but his heart was very sorrowful, and he passed 
that night in tears, and in remorseful grief, at the 
tomb which Leonato had erected for Hero. 

When the morning came, the prince accom- 
panied Claudio to the church, where the good 
friar, and Leonato and his niece, were alreadv as- 
sembled to celebrate a second nuptial: and Leo- 
nato presented to Claudio his promised bride: and 
she wore a mask, that Claudio might not discover 
her face. And Claudio said to the lady in the 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 69 

mask, " Give me your hand, before this holy friar, 
f am your husband, if you will marry me." 
''And when I lived I was your other wife," said 
this unknown lady; and, taking off her mask, she 
proved to be no niece (as was pretended,) but 
Leonato's very daughter, the lady Hero herself 
We may be sure that this proved a most agree- 
able surprise to Claudio, who thought her dead, 
so that he could scarcely, for joy, believe his 
ej^es: and the prince, who was equally amazed 
at what he saw, exclaimed, "Is not this Hero, 
Hero that was dead?" Leonato replied, " She 
died, my lord, but while her slander lived." The 
friar promised them an explanation of this seem- 
ing miracle, after the ceremony was ended; and 
was proceeding to marry them, when he was in- 
terrupted by Benedick, who desired to be married 
at the same time to Beatrice. Beatrice making 
some demur to this match, and Benedick chal- 
lenging her with her love for him, v/hich he had 
learned from Hero, a pleasant explanation took 
place; and they found they had both been tricked 
into a belief of love, which had never existed^ 
and had become lovers in truth by the power of 
a false jest: but the affection, which a merry in- 
vention had cheated them into, was grown too 
pov/erful to be shaken by a serious explanation^ 
and since Benedick proposed to marry, he was 
resolved to think nothing to the purpose that the 
world could say against it; and he merrily kept 
up the jest, and swore to Beatrice, that he took 
her but for pity, and because he heard she was 
dying of love for him; and Beatrice protested, 
that she yielded but upon great persuasion, and 
partly to save his life, for she heard he was in a 



70 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

consumption. So these two mad wits were re- 
conciled, and made a match of it, after Claudio 
and Hero were married; and to complete the his- 
tory, Don John, the contriver of the villany, was 
taken in his flight, and brought back to Messina; 
and a brave punishment it was to this gloomy 
discontented man, to see the joy and feastings 
which, by the disappointment of his plots, took 
place at the palace in Messina. 




^ , If f;^ IP, "u y 



% 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 

During the time that France was divided into 
provinces (or dukedoms as they were called) there 
reigned in one of these provinces an usurper, 
who had deposed, and banished his eider brother, 
the lawful duke. 

The duke, who was thus driven from his domi- 
nions, retired, with a few faithful followers, to the 
forest of Arden; and here the good duke lived 
with his loving friends, who had put themselves 
into a voluntary exile for his sake, while their 
land and revenues enriched the false usurper; 
and custom soon made the hfe of careless ease they 
led here more sweet to them than the pomp and 
uneasy splendour of a courtier's life. Here they 
hved hke the old Robin Hood of England, and 
to this forest many noble youths daily. resorted 
from the court, and did fleet the time carelessly, 
as they did who lived in the golden age. In the 
summer they lay along under the fine shade of 
the large forest trees, marking the playful sports 
of the wild deer; and so fond were they of these 
poor dappled fools, who seemed to be the native 
inhabitants of the forest, that it grieved them to be 
forced to kill them to supply themselves with 
venison for their food. When the cold winds of 
winter made the duke feel the change of his ad- 
verse fortune, he would endure it patiently, and 
say, " The.3e chilling winds which blow upon my 
body, are true counsellors: they do not flatter, 
but represent truly to me my condition; and 



72 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

though they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing 
like so keen as that of unkindness and ingrati- 
tude. I find that, howsoever men speak against 
adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be extracted 
from it; hke the jewel, precious for medicine, 
which is taken from the head of the venomous 
and despised toad." In this manner did the pa- 
tient duke draw a useful moral from every thing 
that he saw; and by the help of this moralizing 
turn, in that life of his, remote from public haunts, 
he could find tongues in trees, books in the run- 
ning brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every 
thing. 

The banished duke had an only daughter, nam- 
ed Rosalind, vdiom the usurper, duke Frederick, 
when he banished her father, still retained in his 
court as a companion for his own daughter Celia. 
A strict friendship subsisted between these ladies, 
which the disagreement between their fathers did 
not in the least interrupt, Celia striving, by every 
kindness in her power, to make amends to Rosa- 
lind for the injustice of her own father in depos- 
ing the father of Rosalind; and whenever the 
thoughts of her father's banishment, and her own 
dependence on the false usurper, made Rosalind 
melancholy, Celia' s whole care was to comfort 
and console her. 

One day, when Ceha was talking in her usual 
kind manner to RosaUnd, saying, " I pray you, 
Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be merr}^," a mes- 
senger entered from the duke, to tell them that 
if they wished to see a wrestling match, which 
was just going to begin, they must come instantly 
to the court before the palace; and Ceha, thinking 
it would amuse Rosalind, agreed to go and see it 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 7'J 

In those times wrestling, which is only prac- 
tised now by country clowns, was a favourite 
sport even in the courts of princes, and before fair 
ladies and princesses. To this wrestling match, 
therefore, Ceha and Rosalind went. They found 
that it was likely to prove a very tragical sight; 
for a large and powerful man, who had long been 
practised in the art of wrestling, and had slaiii 
many men in contests of this kind, was just go- 
ing to wrestle with a very young man, who, from 
his extreme youth and inexperience in the art, 
the beholders all thought would certainly be killed. 

When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he 
said, "How now, daughter and niece, are you 
crept hither to see the wrestling? You will take 
httle dehght in it, there is such odds in the men: 
in pity to this young man, I would wish to per- 
suade him from wrestling. Speak to him, ladies, 
and see if you can move him." 

The ladies were well pleased to perform this 
humane office, and first Celia entreated the young 
stranger that he would desist from the attempt; 
and then Rosahnd spoke so kindly to him, and 
with such feehng consideration for the danger he 
was about to undergo, that instead of being per- 
suaded by her gentle words to forego his pur- 
pose, all his thoughts were bent to distingush him- 
self by his courage in this lovely lady's eyes. 
He refused the request of Celia and Rosalind in 
such graceful and modest words, that they felt 
still mo'-e concern for him; he concluded his re- 
fusal v.dth saying, " I am sorry to deny such fair 
and excellent ladies any thing. But let your fair 
eyes and gentle Avishes go with me to my trial, 
wherein if I be conquered, there is one shamed 
7 



74 TALES FROM SHAKSPEAE.E. 

that was never gi'acious; if I am killed, there is 
one dead that is willing to die: I shall do my 
friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me; 
the w^orld no injury, for in it I have nothing; for 
I only fill up a place in the world which may be 
better supplied when I have made it empty." 

And now the wrestling match began. Celia 
wished the young stranger might not be hurt; 
but Rosalind felt most for him. The friendless 
state which he said he was in, and that he wash- 
ed to die, made Rosalind think that he was like 
herself unfortunate; and she pitied him so much, 
and so deep an interest she took in his danger 
while he was wrestling, that she might almost be 
said at that moment to have fallen in love with 
him. 

The kindness shown this unknown youth by 
these fair and noble ladies gave him courage and 
strength, so that he performed wonders: and in 
the end completely conquered his antagonist, who 
was so much hurt, that for a while he was unable 
to speak or move. 

The duke Frederick was much pleased with 
the courage and skill shown by this young stran- 
ger; and desired to know his name and parentage, 
meaning to. take him under his protection. 

The stranger said his name was Orlando, and 
that he was the youngest son of sir Rowland de 
Boys. 

Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, 
had been dead some years; but when he was 
living, he had been a true subject and dear friend 
of the banished duke: therefore, when Frederick 
heard Orlando was the son of his banished bro- 
tiier's friend, all his liking for this brave young 



AS YOU LIKE n . 75 

man was changed into displ'^asure, and h3 left 
the place in very ill humour. Hating to hear 
the very name of any of his brother's friends, 
and 3^et still admiiing the valour of the youth, he 
said, as he went out, that he wished Orlando had 
been the son of any other man. 

Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new 
favourite was the son of her father's old friend; 
and she said to Ceha, " My father loved sir Row- 
land de Boys, and if I had known this young 
man tvas his son, I would have added tears to my 
entreaties before he should have ventured." 

The ladies then went up to him; and seeing 
him abashed by the sudden displeasure shown by 
the duke, they spoke kind and encouraging words 
to him; and Rosahnd, when they were going 
away, turned back to speak some more civil things 
to the brave young son of her father's old friend; 
and taking a chain from off her neck, she said, 
" Gentleman, wear this for me. I am out of suits 
with fortune, or I would give you a moie valua- 
ble present." 

When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk 
being still of Orlando, Celia began to perceive 
her cousin had fallen in love with the handsome 
young wrestler, and she said to Rosalind, "Is it 
possible you should fall in love so suddenly?" 
Rosalind replied, "The duke, my father, loved 
his father dearly." "But," said Celia, " does it 
therefore follow that you should love his son 
dearly? for then I ought to hate him, for my fa- 
ther hated his father; yet I do not hate Orlando." 

Frederick being enraged at the sight of sir 
Rowland de Boys' son, which reminded him of 
the many friends the banished duke had among 



76 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the nobility, and having been for some lime dis- 
pleased with his niece, because the people praised 
her for her virtues, and pitied her for her good 
father's sake, his malice suddenly broke out 
against her; and while Celia and Rosalind were 
talking of Orlando, Frederick entered the room, 
and with looks full of angei ordered, Rosalind 
instantly to leave tne palace, and follow her father 
into banishment; telling Celia, who in vain plead- 
ed for her, that he had only suffered Rosalind to 
stay upon her account. " I did not then,'* said 
Celia, " entreat you to let her stay; for I was too 
young at that time to value her; but now that I 
know her worth, and that we so long have slept 
together, rose at the same instant, learned, played, 
and eat together, I cannot live out of her com- 
pany." Frederick rephed, " She is too subtle for 
you; her smoothness, her very silence, and her 
patience, speak to the people, and they pity her. 
You are a fool to plead for her, for you will seem 
more brio;ht and virtuous when she is o-one; there- 
fore open not your lips in her favour, for the doom 
which I have passed upon her is irrevocable." 

"When Celia found she could not prevail upon 
her father to let Rosahnd remain with her, she 
generously resolved to accompany her; and, leav- 
ing her father's palace that night, she went along 
with her friend to seek Rosalind's father, the ba- 
nished duke, in the forest of Arden. 

Before they set out, Celia considered that it 
would be unsafe for two young ladies to travel in 
the rich clothes they then wore: she therefore 
proposed that they should disguise their rank by 
dressing themselves like country maids. Rosalind 
said it would be a still greater protection if one 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 77 

of them was to be dressed like a man; and so it 
was quickly agreed on between them, that as 
Rosalind was the tallest, she should wear the dress 
of a young countryman, and Celia should be 
habited like a country lass, and that the}^ should 
say they were brother and sister, and Rosalind 
said she would be called Ganimed, and Celia 
chose the name of Aliena. 

In this disguise, and taking their money and 
jewels to defray their expenses, these fair prin- 
cesses set out on their long travel; for the forest 
of Arden was a long way off, beyond the boun- 
daries of the duke's dominions. 

The lady Rosalind (or Ganimed as she must 
now be called) with her manly garb seemed to 
have put on a manly courage. The faithful friend- 
ship Celia had shown in accompanying Rosalind 
so many weary miles, made the new brother, in 
recompense for this true love, exert a cheerful 
spirit, as if he were indeed Ganimed, the rustic 
and stout-hearted brother of the gentle village 
maiden, Aliena. 

When at last they came to the forest of Arden, 
they no longer found the convenient inns and 
good accommodations they had met with on the 
road; and being in want of food and rest, Gani- 
med, who had so merrily cheered his sister with 
pleasant speeches and happy remarks all the way, 
now owned to Aliena that he was sc weary, he 
could find in his heart to disgrace his man's ap- 
parel, and cry like a woman; and Aliena declared 
she could go no farther; and then again Gani- 
med tried to recollect that it was a man's duty to 
comfort and console a woman, as the v^^aker ves- 
sel" and to seem courageous to his ne^ sister, he 
7* 



78 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

said, " Come, have a good heart, my sister Aliena; 
we are now at the end of our travel, in the forest 
of Arden." But feigned manUness and forced 
courage would no longer support them; for though 
they were in the forest of Arden, they knev/ not 
where to find the duke: and here the travel of 
these weary ladies might have come to a sad con- 
clusion, for they might have lost themselves, and 
have perished for want of food; but providentially, 
as they were sitting on the grass almost dying 
with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a coun- 
tryman chanced to pass that way, and Ganimed 
once more tried to speak with a manly boldness, 
saying, " Shepherd, if love or gold can in this 
desert place procure us entertainment, I pray you 
bring us where we may rest ourselves; for this 
young maid, my sister, is much fatigued with 
travelling, and faints for want of food." 

The man replied, that he was only a servant to 
a shepherd, and that his master's house was just 
going to be sold, and therefore they would find 
but poor entertainment; but that if they would go 
with him, they should be welcome to what there 
was. They followed the man, the near prospect 
of relief giving them fresh strength; and bought 
the house and sheep of the shepherd, and took 
the man who conducted them to the shepherd's 
house, to wait on them; and being by this means 
so fortunately provided with a neat cottage, and 
weQ supplied with provisions, they agreed to stay 
here till they could learn in what part of the fo- 
rest the duke dwelt. 

When they were rested after the fatigue of 
their journey, they began to hke their new way 
of life, and almost fancied themselves the shep- 



AS YOU LIKE IT. /U 

herd and shepherdess they feigned to be; yet 
sometimes Ginimed remembered he had once been 
the same lady Rosahnd who had so dearly loved 
the brave Orlando, because he was the son of old 
sir Rowland, her father's friend; and though Ga- 
nimed thought that Orlando was many miles dis- 
tant, even so many weary miles as they had tra- 
velled, yet it soon appeared that Orlando was also 
in the forest of Arden: and in this manner this 
strange event came to pass. 

Orlando was the youngest son of sir RoAvland 
de Boys, who, when he died, kft him (Orlando 
being then very young) to the care of his eldest 
brother Oliver, charging Ohver on his blessing to 
give his brother a good education, and provide for 
him as became the dignity of their ancient house. 
Ohver proved an unwortliy brother; and disre- 
garding the commands of his dying father, he 
never put his brother to school, bat kept him at 
home untaught and entirely neglected. But in 
his nature and in the noble qualities of his mind 
Orlando so much resembled his excellent father, 
that without any advantages of education he seem- 
ed like a youth who had been bred with the ut- 
most care; and Oliver so envied the fine person 
and dignified manners of his untutored brother, 
that at last he wished to destroy him; and to ef- 
fect this he set on people to persuade him to wres- 
tle with the famous wrestler, who, as has been 
before related, had killed so many men. Now it 
was this cruel brother's neglect of him which 
made Orlando say he wished to die, being so 
friendless. 

When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had 
formed, his brother proved victorious, his envy 



80 TALES FROM SHAKSPEx\P.E. 

and malice knew no bounds and he swoie he 
would burn the chamber where- Orlando slept. 
He was overheard making this vow by one that 
had been an old and faithful servant to their fa- 
ther, a!nd that loved Orlando because he resem- 
bled sir Rowland. This old man went out to meet 
liim when he returned from the duke's palace, 
and when he saw Orlando, the peril his dear 
young master was in made him break out into 
these passionate exclamations: " my gentle 
master, my sweet master, you memory of old 
sir Rowland! why are you virtuous? why are you 
gentle, strong, and valiant? and why would you 
be so fond to overcome the famous wrestler? Your 
praise is come too swiftly home before you." Or- 
lando, wondering what all this meant, asked him 
what Was the matter. And then the old man told 
him how his wicked brother, envying the love all 
people bore him, and now hearing the fame he 
had gained by his victory in the duke's palace, 
intended to destroy him, by setting fire to his 
chamber that night; and in conclusion, advised 
him to escape the danger he was in by instant 
flight: and knowing Orlando had no money, 
Adam (for that was the good old man's name) 
had brought out with him his own little hoard, 
and he said, " I have five hundred crowns, the 
thrifty hire I saved under your father, and laid 
by to be provision for me when my old limbs 
should become unfit for service; take that, and 
he that doth the ravens feed be comfort to my 
age! Here is the gold; all this I give to you: let 
me be your servant; though I look old, I will do 
the service of a younger man in all your business 
ind necessities." " good old man!" said Or. 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 81 

ando, "how well appears in you the constant 
service of the old world! You are not for the 
fashion of these times. We will go along toge- 
ther, and before your youthful wages are spent, I 
shall light upon some means for both our main- 
tenance." 

Together then this faithful servant and his lov- 
ed master set out; and Orlando and Adam tra- 
velled on, uncertain what course to pursue, till 
they came to the forest of Arden, and there they 
found themselves in the sam.e distress for want 
of food that Ganimmed and Ahena had been. 
They wandered on, seeking some human habita- 
tion, till they were almost spent with hunger and 
fatigue. Adam at last said, " O my dear master, 
I die for want of food, I can go no farther!" He 
then laid himself down, thinking to make that 
place his grave, and bade his dear master fare- 
well. Orlando, seeing him in this weak state, 
took his old servant up in his arms, and carried 
him under the shelter of some pleasant trees; and 
he said to him, " Cheerly, old Adam, rest your 
weary limbs here awhile, and do not talk of 
dying!" 

Orlando then searched about to find some food, 
and he happened to arrive at that part of the fo- 
rest where the duke was; and he and his friends 
were just going to eat their dinner, this royal 
duke being seated on the grass, under no other 
canopy than the shady covert of some large trees. 

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, 
drew his sword, intending to take their meat by 
force, and said, " Forbear, and eat no more; I 
must have your food!" The duke asked him, if 
distress had made hi:n so bold, or if he were a 



82 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

rude despiser of good nnanners? On this Orlando 
said, he wa^ dying with hunger; and then the 
duke told him he was welcome to sit down and 
eat with them. Orlando, hearing him speak so 
gently, put up his sword, and blushed with shame 
at the rude manner in which he had demanded 
their food. "Pardon me, I pray you," said Ju^: 
" I thought that all things had been savage here, 
and therefore I put on the countenance of stern 
command; but whatever men you are, that in this 
desert, under the shade of melancholy boughs, 
lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; if 
ever you have looked on better days; if ever you 
have been where bells have knolled to church; 
if you have ever sat at any good man's feast; if 
ever from your eyelids you have wiped a tear, 
and know what it is to pity or be pitied, may gen- 
tle speeches now move you to do me human 
courtesy!" The duke replied, "True it is that 
we are men (as you say) w^ho have seen better 
days, and though we have now our habitation in 
this wild forest, w^e have lived in towns and cities, 
and have with holy bell been knolled to church, 
have sat at good men's feasts, and from our eyes 
have wiped the drops which sacred pity has en- 
gendered: therefore sit you down, and take of 
our refreshment as much as will minister to your 
wants." " There is an old poor man," answered 
Orlando, " who has limped after me many a weary 
step in pure love, oppressed at once with two sad 
infirmities, age and hunger, till he be satisfied, ] 
must not touch a bit." " Go, find him out, and 
bring him hither, said the duke; "we will for- 
bear to eat till you return." Then Orlando went 
like a doe to find its fawn and give it food; and 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 



83 



presently returned, bringring Adam in his arms; 
and the duke said, " Set down your venerable 
burthen; you are both welcome:" and they fed 
the old man, and cheered his heart, and he re- 
vived, and recovered his health and strength 



ag-am. 



The duke inquired who Orlando was; and when 
he found that he was the son of his old friend, 
sir Rowland de Boys, he took him under his pro- 
tection, and Orlando and his old servant hved 
with the duke in the forest. 

Orlando arrived in the forest not many days 
after Ganimed and Aliena came there, and (as 
has been before related) bought the shepherd's 
cottage. . 

Ganimed and Aliena were strangely surprised 
to find the name of Rosahnd carved on the trees, 
and love-sonnets fastened to them^ all addressed 
to RosaUnd: and while they were wondering how 
this could be, they met Orlando, and they per- 
ceived the chain which Rosahnd had given him 
about his neck. 

Orlando httle thought that Ganimed was the 
fair princess Rosahnd, who, by her noble conde- 
scension and favoui-, had so won his heart that he 
passed his whole time in carving her name upon 
the trees, and writing sonnets in praise of her 
beauty: but being much pleased with the grace- 
ful air of this pretty shepherd-youth, he entered 
into conversation with him, and he thought he 
saw a hkeness in Ganimed to his beloved Rosa- 
hnd, but that he had none of the dignified de- 
portment of that noble lady; for Ganimed assum- 
ed the forward manners often seen in >ouths 
vhen they are betv/een boys and men, and with 



84 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

much archness and humour talked to Orlando of 
a certain lover, "who," said he, " haunts our fo- 
rest, and spoils our young trees with carving Ro- 
salind upon their barks; and he hangs odes upon 
hawthorns, and elegies on brambles, all praising 
this same Rosalind. If I could find this lover, I 
would give him some good counsel that would 
soon cure him of his love." 

Oriando confessed that he was the fond lover 
of whom he spoke, and asked Ganimed to give 
him the good counsel he talked of. The remedy 
Ganimed proposed, and the counsel he gave him, 
was that Orlando should come every day to the 
cottage where he and his sister Aliena dwelt: 
*' And then," said Ganimed, " I will feign myself 
to be Rosahnd, and you shall feign to court me 
in the same manner as you would do if I was 
Rosalind, and then I will imitate the fantastic 
ways of whimsical ladies to their lorers, till I 
make you ashamed of your love; and this is the 
v/ay I propose to cure you." Orlando had no 
great faith in the remedy, yet he agreed to come 
everyday to Ganimed's cottage, and feign a play- 
ful courtship; and every day Orlando visited Ga- 
nimed and Aliena, and Orlando called the shep- 
herd Ganimed his Rosahnd, and every day talked 
over aU the fine words and flattering compliments 
which young m.en delight to use when they court 
their mistresses. It does not appear, however, 
that Ganimed made any progress in curing Or- 
lando of his love for Rosalind. 

Though Orlando thought all this was but a 
sportive pl-ay (not dreaming that Ganimed was 
his very Rosalind,) yet the opportunity it gave 
him of saying all the fond things he had in his 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 85 

Iieart, pleased his fancy almost as well as it did 
Ganimed's, Avho enjoyed the secret jest in know- 
ing these fine love-speeches were all addressed 
to the right person. 

In this manner many days passed pleasantly 
on with these young people; and the good-natur- 
ed Aliena, seeing it made Ganimed happy, let 
him have his own way, and was diverted at the 
mock courtship, and did not care to remind Ga- 
nimed that the lady Rosalind had not yet made 
herself known to the duke her father, whose place 
of resort in the forest they had learnt from Or- 
lando. Ganimed met the duke one day, and had 
some talk with him, and the duke asked of what 
parentage he came. Ganimed answered, that he 
came of as good' parentage as he did; which made 
the duke smile, for he did not suspect the pretty 
shepherd-boy came of royal lineage. Then see- 
ing the duke look well and happy, Ganimed was 
content to put oif all further explanation for a 
few days longer. 

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit 
Ganimed, he saw a man lying asleep on the 
ground, and a large green snake had twisted it- 
self about his neck. The snake, seeing Orlando 
a^.proach, glided away among the bushes. Or- 
lando went nearer, and then he discovered a 
lioness lie couching, with her head on the ground, 
with a cat-like watch, waiting till the sleeping 
man awaked (for it is said that lions will prey on 
nothing that is dead or sleeping.) It seemed as 
if Orlando was sent by Providence to free the 
man from the danger of the snake and lioness: 
but when the man looked in the man's face, he 
perceived that the sleeper, who was exposed to 
8 



86 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

tLis double peril, was his own brother OHver, who 
had so cruelly used him, and had threatened to 
destroy him by fire; and he was almost tempted 
to leave him a prey to the hungry lioness; but 
brotherly affection and the gentleness of his na- 
ture soon overcame his first anger against his bro- 
ther; and he drew his sword, and attacked the 
lioness, and slew her, and thus preserved his 
brother's life both from the venomous snake and 
from the furious lioness: but before Orlando could 
conquer the lioness, she had torn one of his arras 
with her sharp claws. 

While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, 
Oliver awaked, and perceiving that his brother 
Orlando, whom he had so cruelly treated, was 
saving him from the fury of the wild beast at the 
risk of his own life, shame and remorse at once 
seized him, and he repented of his unworthy 
conduct, and besought with many tears his bro- 
ther's pardon for the injuries he had done him. 
Orlando rejoiced to see him so penitent, and rea- 
dily forgave him: they embraced each other; and 
from that hour Oliver loved Orlando with a true 
brotherly affection, though he had come to the 
forest bent on his destrijction. 

The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very 
much, he found himself too weak to go to visit 
Ganimed, and therefore he desired his brother to 
go and tell Ganimed, "whom," said Orlando, "I 
in sport do call my Rosalind," the accident which 
had befallen him. 

Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganimed 
and Aliena how Orlando had saved his life: and 
when he had finished the story of Orlando's bra- 
very, and his own providential escape, he owned 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 87 

to them that he was Orlando's brother, who had 
so cruelly used him; and then he told them of 
their reconciliation. 

The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for 
his olTences made such a Hvely impression on the 
kind heart of Ahena, that she instantly fell in love 
with him; and Oliver observing how much she 
pitied the distress he told her he felt for his fault, 
he as suddenly fell in love with her. But while 
love was thus stealing into the hearts of Aliena 
and Oliver, he was no less busy with Ganimed, 
who hearing of the danger Orlando had been in, 
and that he was wounded by the lioness, fainted; 
and Vv^hen he recovered, he pretended that he had 
counterfeited the swoon in the imaginary cha- 
racter of Rosalind, and Ganimed said to Oliver, 
" Tell your brother Orlando how well I counter- 
feited a swoon." But Oliver saw by the paleness 
of his complexion that he did really faint, and 
much wondering at the weakness of the young 
man, he said, " Well, if you did counterfeit, take 
a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man." "So 
I do," replied Ganimed, truly, " but I should have 
been a woman by right." 

Oliver made this visit a very long one, and 
when at last he returned back to his brother, he 
had much news to tell him; for besides the ac- 
count of Ganimed's fainting at the hearing that 
Orlando was wounded, Oliver told him how he 
had fallen in love with the fair shepherdess Ahena, 
and that she had lent a favourable ear to his suit, 
^even in this their first interview; and he talked 
to his brother, as of a thing almost settled, that 
he should marry Aliena, saying, that he so well 
loved her, that he would live here as a shepherd, 



88 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

and settle his estate and house at home upon 
Orlando. 

"You have my consent," said Orlando. ''Let 
your wedding be to-moi row, and I will invite the 
duke and his friends. Go and persuade your 
shepherdess to agree to this: she is now alone; 
for look, here comes her brother." Oliver went 
to Aliena; and Ganimed, whom Orlando had per- 
ceived approaching, came to inquire after the 
health of his wounded friend. 

When Orlando and Ganimed began to talk over 
the sudden love which had taken place between 
Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said he had advised 
his brother to persuade his fair shepherdess to be 
married on the morrow, and then he added how 
much he could wish to be married on the same 
day to his Rosalind. 

Ganimed, who well approved of this arrange- 
ment, said, that if Orlando really loved Rosahnd 
as well as he professed to do, he should have his 
wish; for on the morrow he would engage to make 
Rosalind appear in her own person, and also that 
Rosalind should be willing to marry Orlando. 

This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ga- 
nimed was the lady Rosalind, he could so easily 
perform, he pretended he would bring to pass b}"- 
the aid of magic, which he said he had learnt of 
an uncle who was a famous magician. 

The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half 
doubting what he heard, asked Ganimed if he 
spoke in sober meaning. " By my hfe I do," said 
Ganimed; "therefore put on your best clothes, 
and bid the duke and your friends to your wed- 
ding; for if you desire to be married to-morrow 
to Rosalind, she shall be here." 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 



89 



The next morning, Oliver having obtained the 
consent of AUena, they came into the presence 
of the duke, and with them also came Orlando. 

They being all assembled to celebrate this dou- 
ble marriage, and as yet only one of the brides 
appearing, there was much of wondering and 
conjecture, but they mostly thought that Ganimed 
was making a jest of Orlando. 

The duke, hearing that it was his own daugh- 
ter that was to be brous-ht in this strang-e wav, 
asked Orlando if he believed the shepherd-boy 
could really do Vv^hat he had promised; and while 
Orlando was answering that he knew not what 
to think, Ganimed entered, and asked the duke, 
if he brought his daughter, whether he would 
consent to her marriage with Orlando. " That I 
would," said the duke, "if I had kingdoms to 
give with her." Ganimed then said to Orlando, 
" And you say you will marry her if I bring h-er 
here." "That I would," said Orlando, " if I 
were king of many kmgdoms." 

Ganimed and Aliena then went out together, 
and Ganimed throwing off his male attire, and 
being once more dressed in women's apparel, 
quickly became Rosalind without the power of 
m.agic; and Aliena, changing her country garb 
for her own rich clothes, was with as little trouble 
transformed into the lady Celia. 

While they were gone, the duke said to Or- 
lando, that he thought the shepherd Ganimed very 
like his daughter Rosahnd; and Orlando said, he 
also had observed the resemblance. 

They had no time to wonder how all this would 
end, for Rosalind and Celia in their own clothes 
entered; and no longer pretending that it was bv 
S* 



00 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the power of magic that she came there, Rosalina 
threw herself on her knees before her father, and 
begged his blessing. It seemed so wonderful to 
all present that she should so suddenly appear, 
that it might well have passed for magic; but 
Rosalind would no longer trifle with her father, 
and told him the story of her banishment, and of 
her dwelling in the forest as a shepherd-boy, her 
cousin Celia passing as her sister. 

The duke ratified the consent he had already 
given to the marriage; and Orlando and Rosalind, 
Oliver and Celia, were married at the same tim.e. 
And though their wedding could not be celebrat- 
ed in this wild forest with any of the parade or 
splendour usual on such occasions, yet a happier 
wedding-day was never passed: and while they 
were eating their venison under the cool shade 
of the pleasant trees, as if nothing should be 
wanting to complete the felicity of this good duke 
and the true lovers, an unexpected messenger 
arrived to tell the duke the joyful news, that his 
dukedom was restored to him. 

The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daugh- 
ter Celia, and hearing that every day men of 
great worth resorted to the forest of Arden to join 
the lawful duke in his exile, much envying that 
his brother should be so highly respected in his 
adversit}^, put himself at the head of a large 
force, and advanced towards the forest, intending 
to seize his brother, and put him, with all his 
faithful followers, to the sword; but, by a wonder- 
ful interposition of Providence, this bad brother 
was converted from his evil intention: for just as 
he entered the skirts of the wild forest, he was 
met by an old religious man, a hermit, with whom 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 



91 



he had much talk, and who in the end completely 
turned his heart from his wicked design. Thence- 
forward he became a true penitent, and resolved, 
relinquishing his unjust dominion, to spend the 
remainder of his days in a rehgious house. The 
first act of his newly-conceived penitence was to 
send- a messenger to his brother (as has been re- 
lated,) to offer to restore to him his dukedom, 
which he had usurped so long, and with it the 
lands and revenues of his friends, the faithful 
followers of his adversity. 

This joyful news, as unexpected as it was wel- 
come, came opportunely to heighten the festivity 
and rejoicings at the wedding of the princesses. 
Celia comphmented her cousin on this good for- 
tune which had happened to the duke, Rosalind's 
father, and wished joy very sincerely, though 
she herself was no longer heir to the dukedom, 
but by this restoration which her father had made, 
E-osalind was now the heir: so completely was 
the love of these two cousins unmixed with any 
thing of jealousy or envy. 

The duke had now an opportunity of reward- 
ing those true friends who had stayed with him 
in his banishment; and these worthy followers, 
though they had patiently shared his adverse for- 
tune, were very well pleased to return in peace 
and prosperity to the palace of their lawful duke. 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 

There lived in the city of Verona two young 
gentlemen, whose names were Valentine and 
Prolheus, between whom a firm and uninterrupt- 
ed friendship had long subsisted. They pursued 
their studies together, and their hours of leisure 
were always passed in each other's company, 
except when Protheus visited a lady he was in 
love with; and these visits to his mistress, and 
this passion of Protheus for the fair Julia, v/ere 
the only topics on which these two friends dis- 
agreed: for Valentine, not being himself a lover, 
was sometimes a little weary of hearing his friend 
for ever talking of his Julia, and then he would 
laugh at Protheus, and in pleasant terms ridicule 
the passion of love, and declare that no such idle 
fancies should ever enter his head, greatly pre- 
ferring (as he said) the free and happy life he 
led, to the anxious hopes and fears of the lover 
Protheus. 

One morning Valentine came to Protheus to 
tell him that they must for a time be separated, 
for that he was going to Milan. Protheus, un- 
w^illing to part with his fnend, used man 3^ argu- 
ments to prevail upon Valentine not to leave him; 
but Valentine said, " Cease to persuade me, my 
loving Protheus. I will not, like a sluggard, wear 
out my youth in idleness at home. Home-keep- 
ing youths have ever homely wits. If your af- 
fection were not chained to the sweet glances of 
your honoured Julia, I would entreat you to ac- 




THE TW® (&EIITLEME¥ (Q)F ¥ES®1A 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 93 

company me, to see the wonders of the world 
abroad: but since you are a lover, love on still, 
and may 5^our love be prosperous!" 

They parted with mutual expressions of unal- 
terable friendship. " Sweet Valentine, adieu!" 
said Protheus; " think on me, when you see some 
rare object worthy of notice in your travels, and 
wish me partaker of your happiness." 

Valentine began his journey that same day 
towards Milan; and when his friend had left him, 
Protheus sat down to write a letter to Julia, which 
he gave to her maid Lucetta to deliver to her 
mistress. 

Julia loved Protheus as well as he did her, but 
she was a lady of a noble spirit, and she thought 
it did not become her maiden dignit}^ too easily 
to be won; therefore she affected to be insensible 
of his passion, and gave him much uneasiness in 
the prosecution of his suit. 

And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, 
she would not receive it, and chid her maid for 
taking letters from Protheus, and ordered her to 
leave the room. But she so much wished to see 
what was written in the letter, that she soon called 
in her maid again; and when Lucetta returned, 
she said, ''What o'clock is it?" Lucetta, who 
knew her mistress more desired to see the letter 
than to know the time of day, without answering 
her question, again offered the rejected letter. 
Julia, angry that her maid should thus take the 
liberty of seeming to know what she really want- 
ed, tore the letter in pieces, and threw it on the 
floor, ordering her maid once more out of the 
room. As Lucetta was retiring, she stopped to 
pick up the fragments of the torn letter; but Julia, 



94 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

who meant not so to part with them, said, in pre- 
tended anger, " Go, get you gone, and let the pa- 
pers he; you would be fingering them to anger 
me." 

Julia then began to piece together as well as 
she could the torn fragments. She first made out 
these words, "Love-wounded Protheus;" and la- 
menting over these and such like loving words, 
which she made out though they were all torn 
asunder, or, she said, wounded (the expression 
" Love-wounded Protheus," giving her that idea,) 
she talked to these kind words, telling them she 
would lodge them in her bosom as in a bed, till 
their wounds were healed, and that she would 
kiss each several piece, to make amends. 

In this manner she went on talking with a 
pretty lady-like childishness, till finding herself 
unable to make out the whole, and vexed at her 
own ingratitude in destroying such sweet and 
loving words, as she called them, she wrote a 
much kinder letter to Protheus than she had ever 
done before. 

Protheus was greatly delighted at receiving this 
favourable answer to his letter; and while he was 
reading it, he exclaimed, "Sweet love, sv/eet 
hues, sweet life!" In the midst of his raptures 
he was interrupted by his father. " How now!" 
said the old gentleman; "what letter are you 
reading there?" 

"My lord," replied Protheus, "it is a letter 
from my friend Valentine, at Milan." 

" Lend me the letter," said his father: "let me 
see what news." 

"There are no news, my lord," said Protheus, 
greatly alarmed, "but that he writes how well 



THE TWO GF.NTLEMEN OF VERONA. 95 

beloved he is of the duke of Milan, who daily 
graces him with favours; and how he wishes me 
with him, the partner of his fortune." 

"And how stand you affected to his wish?" 
asked the father. 

"As one relying on your lordship's will, and 
not depending on his friendly wish," said Pro- 
theus. 

Now it had happened that Protheus's father 
had just been talking with a friend on this very 
subject: his friend had said, he wondered his 
lordship suffered his son to spend his youth at 
home, while most m^en were sending their sons 
to seek preferment abroad; "some," said he, "to 
the wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to 
discover islands far away, end some to studj^ in 
foreign universities; and there is his companion 
Valentine, he is gone to the duke of Milan's 
court. Your son is fit for any of these things, 
and it will be a great disadvantage to him in his 
riper age, not to have travelled in his youth." 

Protheus's father thought the advice of his friend 
was very good, and upon Protheus telhng him 
that Valentine " wished him with him, the partner 
of his fortune," he at once determined to send 
his son to Milan; and without giving Protheus 
any reason for this sudden resolution, it being the 
usual habit of this positive old gentleman to com- 
mand his son, not reason with him, he said, " My 
will is the same as Valentine's wish:" and seeing 
his son look astonished, he added, "Look not 
amazed, that I so suddenly reso/Ve 3^ou shall spend 
somie time in the duke of Milan's court; for what 
I will I will, and there is an end. To-morrow be 



96 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

in readiness to go. Make no excuses; for I am 
peremptory. 

Protheus knew it was of no use to make objec- 
tions to his father, who never suffered him to dis- 
pute his will; and h* blamed h mself for telling 
his father an untruth about Julia's letter, which 
had brought upon him the sad necessity of leav- 
ing her. 

Now that Julia found she was going to lose 
Protheus for so long a time, she no longer pre- 
tended indifference; and they bade each other a 
mournful farewell, with many vows of love and 
constancy. Protheus and Julia exchanged rings, 
which they both promised to keep for ever in re- 
membrance of each other; and thus, taking a sor- 
rowful leave, Protheus sei out on his journey to 
Milan, the abode of his friend Valentine. 

Valentine was in reality what Protheus had 
feigne-d to his father, in high favour with the duke 
of Milan; and another event had happened to 
him, of which Protheus did not even dream, for 
Valentine had given up the freedom of which he 
used so much to boast, and v/as become as pas- 
sionate a lover as Protheus. 

She who had wrought this wondrous change 
in Valentine, was the lady Silvia, daughter of the 
duke of Milan, and she also loved him; but they 
concealed their love from the duke, because al- 
though he showed much kindner-s for Valentine, 
and invited him every day to his palace, yet he 
designed to marry his daughter to a young cour- 
tier, whose name was Thurio. Silvia despised 
this Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense 
and excellent qualities of Valentine. 

These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 97 

one day on a visit to Silvia, and Valentine w^rs 
entertaining Sylvia with turning every thing 
Thurio said into ridicule, when tlie duke himself 
entered the room, and told Valentine the welcome 
news of his friend Protheus's arrival. Valentine 
said, "If I had wished a thing, it would have 
been to have seen him here!" and then he highly 
praised Protheus to the duke, saying, " My lord, 
though I have been a truant of my time, yet hath 
my friend made use and fair advantage of his 
days, and is complete in person and in mind, in 
all good grace to grace a gentleman." 

'' Welcome him then according to his worth," 
said the duke: "Silvia, I speak to you, and you, . 
sir Thurio; for Valentine, I need not bid him do 
so." They were here interrupted by the entrance 
of Protheus, and Valentine introduced him to 
Silvia, saying, "Sweet lady, entertain him to be 
.my fellow-servant to your ladyship." 

When Valentine and Protheus had ended their 
visit, and were alone together, Valentine said, 
' ' Now teU me how all does from whence yoa came? 
How does your lady, and how thrives 3^our love?" 
Protheus replied, "My tales of love used to weary 
you. I know you joy not in a love discourse." 

" Ay, Protheus," returned Valentine, " but that 
life is altered now. I have done penance for con- 
demning love. For in revenge of my contempt 
of Love, Love has chased- sleep from my enthral- 
led eyes. gentle Protheus, Love is a mighty 
lord, and hath so humbled me, that I confess 
there is no woe Hke his correction, nor no such 
joy on earth as in his service. I now hke no 
discourse except it be of love. Now I can break 
9 



98 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, upon the very name 
of love." 

This acknowledgement of the change which 
love had made in the disposition of Valentine was 
a great triumph to his friend Protheus. But 
"friend" Protheus must be called no longer, for 
the same all-powerful deity Love, of whom they 
were speaking (yea even while they were talking 
of the change he had made in Valentine) was 
working in the heait of Protheus; and he, who 
had till this time been a pattern of true love and 
perfect friendship, was how, in one short inter- 
view with Silvia, become a false friend and a 
faithless lover; for at the first sight of §ilvia, all 
his love for Julia vanished away like a dream, 
nor did his long friendship for Valentine deter 
him from endeavouring to supplant him in her 
affections; and although, as it will always be, when 
people of dispositions naturally good become uri- 
iust, he had many scruples before he detei-mined 
to forsake Juha, and become the rival of Valen- 
tine; 5^et he at length overcame his sense of duty, 
and yielded himself up, almost without remorse, 
to his new unhappy passion. 

Valentine imparted to him in confidence the 
whole history of his love, and how carefully they 
had concealed it from the duke her father, and 
told him, that, despairing of ever being able to 
obtain his consent, he had prevailed upon Silvia 
to leave her father's palace that night, and go 
with him to Mantua; then he showed Protheus a 
ladder of ropes, by help of which he meant to 
assist Silvia to get out of one of the windows of 
the palace, after it was dark. 

Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 99 

dearest secrets, it is hardly possible to be believ- 
ed, but so it was, that Protheus resolved to go to 
the duke, and disclose the whole to him. 

This false friend began his tale with many art- 
ful speeches to the duke, such as that by the laws 
of friendship he ought to conceal what he was 
going to reveal, but that the gracious favour the 
duke had shown him, and the duty he owed his 
grace, urged him to tell that, which else no worldly 
good should draw from him. He then told all he had 
heard from Valentine, not omitting the ladder of 
ro})es, and the manner in which Valentine meant 
to conceal them under a long cloak. 

The duke thought Protheus quite a miracle of 
integrity, in that he preferred telling his friend's 
intention rather than he would conceal an unjust 
action; highly commended him, and promised 
him not to let Valentine know from whom he had 
learnt this inteUigence, but by some artifice to 
make Valentine betray the secret himself. For 
this purpose the duke awaited the coming of Va- 
lentine in the evening, whom he soon saw hur- 
rying towards the palace, and he perceived some- 
what was wrapped within his cloak, which he 
concluded was the rope-ladder. 

The duke upon this stopped him, saying, 
''Whither away so. fast, Valentine?" " May it 
please your grace," said Valentine, " there is a 
messenger, that stays to bear my letters to my 
friends, and I am going to deliver them." Now 
this falsehood of Valentine's had no better suc- 
cess in the event than the untruth Protheus told 
his father. 

"Be they of much import?" said the duke. 

'' No more, my lord," said Valentine, "than to 



iOO TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

tell my father I am weU and^happy at your grace's 
court." 

''Nay, then," said the duke, "no matter: stay 
with me a while. I wish your counsel about 
some affairs that concern me nearly." He then 
told Valentine an artful story, as a prelude to 
draw his secret from him, saying, that Valentine 
knew he wished to match his daughter with 
Thurio, but that she was stubborn and disobedient 
to his commands, "neither regarding," said he, 
"that she is my child, nor fearing me as if I were 
her father. And I may say to thee, this pride of 
hers has drawn my love from her. I had thought 
my age should have been cherished by her child- 
like duty. I how am resolved to take a wife, and 
turn her out to whosoever will take her in. Let 
her beauty be her wedding dower, for me and 
my possessions she esteems not." 

Valentine, wondering v/here all this would 
end, made answer, "And what would your grace 
have me to do in ail this?" 

" Why," said the duke, "the lady I would wish 
to marry is nice and coy, and does not much es- 
teem my aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion 
of courtship is much changed since I was young: 
now I would willingly have you to be my tutor 
to instruct me how I am to woo." 

Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes 
of courtship then practised by young men, when 
they wished to win a fair lady's love, such as 
presents, freque it visits, and the hke. 

The duke replied to this, that the lady did re- 
fuse a present which he sent her, and that she 
was so strictly kept by her father, that no man 
might have access to her by day. 



ls:=: 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 101 

" Why, then/' said Valentine, "you must visit 
her by night." 

''But at night," said the artful duke, who was 
now coming to the drift of his discourse, " her 
doors are fast locked." 

Valentine then unfortunately proposed, that 
the duke should get into the lady's chamber at 
night by means of a ladder of ropes, saying, he 
would procure him one fitting for that purpose; 
and in conclusion advised him to conceal this 
ladder of ropes under such a cloak as that which 
he now wore. "Lend me your cloak," said the 
duke, who had feigned this long story on purpose 
to have a pretence to get off the cloak; so, upon 
saying these words, he caught hold of Valentine's 
cloak, and throwing it back, he discovered not 
only the ladder of ropes, but also a letter of Sil- 
via's, which he instantly opened, and read; and 
this letter contained a full account of their intend- 
ed elopement. The duke, after upbraiding Va- 
lentine for his ingratitude in thus returning the 
favour he had shown him, by endeavouring to 
steal away his daughter, banished him from the 
court and city of Milan for ever; and Valentine 
was forced to depart that night, without even see- 
ing Silvia. 

While Protheus at Milan was thus injuring 
Valentine, Julia at Verona was regretting the ab- 
sence of Protheus; and her regard for him at last 
so far overcame her sense of propriety, that she 
resolved to leave Verona, and seek her lover 
at Milan; and to secure herself from danger on 
the road, she dressed her maid Lucetta and her- 
self in men's clothes, and they set out in this dis- 
guise, and arrived at Milan, soon after Valentine 
9* 



102 TALES FROM SHAKSPE.IRE. 

was bmished from that city through the treacheiy 
of Protheus. 

Juha entered Milan about noon, and she took 
up her abode at an inn; and her thoughts being 
all oh her dear Protheus, she entered into con- 
v^ers^tion with the innkeeper, or host, as he was 
called, thinking by that means to learn some 
news of Protheus. - 

The host was greatly pleased that this hand- 
some young gentleman (as he took her to be,) 
who, from his appearance, he concluded was of 
high rank, spoke so familiarly to him; and being 
a good-natured man, he was sorry to see him 
look so melancholy; and to amuse his young 
guest he offered to take him to hear some fine 
music, with which, he said, a gentleman that 
evening was going to serenade his mistress. 

The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, 
that she did not well know what Protheus would 
think of the imprudent step she had taken; for 
she knew he had loved her for her noble maiden 
pride and dignity of character, and she feared 
she should lower herself in his esteem: and this 
it was that made her wear a sad and thoughtful 
countenance. 

She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go 
with him, and hear the music; for she secretly 
hoped she might meet Protheus by the way. 

But when she came to the palace whither the 
host conducted Yer, a very different effect was 
produced to what the kind host intended: for 
there, to her heart's sorrow, she beheld her lover, 
the inconstant Protheus, serenading the lady Sil- 
via with music, and addressing discourse of love 
and admiration to her. And Juha overheard Sil- 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 103 

via from a window talk with Prothens, and re- 
proach him for forsaking his own true lady, and 
for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine: and 
then Silvia left the window, not choosing to listen 
to his music and his fine speeches; for she v/as 
a faithful lady to her banished Valentine, and ab- 
horred the ungenerous conduct of his false friend 
Protheus. 

Though Julia was in despair at what she had 
just witnessed, yet did she still love the tru- 
ant Protheus; and hearing that he had lately 
parted with a servant, she contrived, with the as- 
sistance of her host, the friendly innkeeper, to 
hire herself to Protheus as a page; and Protheus 
knew not she was Juha, and he sent her with 
letters and presents to her rival Silvia, and he 
even sent by her the very ring she gave him as 
a parting gift at Verona. 

When she went to that lady with the ring, she 
was most glad to find that Silvia utterly rejected 
the suit of Protheus; and Juha, or the page Se- 
bastian, as she was called, entered into conversa- 
tion with Silvia about Protheus's first love, the 
forsaken lady Julia. She putting in (as one may 
say) a good w^ord for herself, said she knew Julia; 
as well she might, being herself the Julia of 
whom she spoke: telling how fondly Julia loved 
her master Protheus, and how his unkind neglect 
would grieve her: and then she with a pretty 
equivocation went on: " Julia is about my height 
and of my complexion, the colour of her eyes 
and hair* the same as mine: ' and indeed Julia 
looked a most beautiful youth in her boy's attire. 
Silvia was moved to pity this lovely lady, who 
was so sadly forsaken by the man she loved: and 



104 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

when Julia offered the ring which Protheus had 
sent, refused it, saying, "The more shame for 
him that he sends me that ring; I will not take 
it, for I have often heard him say his Julia gave 
it to him. I love thee, gentle youth, for pitying 
her, poor lady! Here is a purse; I give it you 
for Juha's sake." These comfortable words com- 
ing from her kind rival's tongut cheered the 
drooping heart of the disguised lady. 

But to return to the banished Valentine; who 
scarce knew which way to bend his course, being 
unwilling to return home to his father a disgraced 
and banished man: as he was wandering over a 
lonely forest, not far distant from Milan, where 
he had left his heart's dear treasure, the lady Sil- 
via, he was set upon by robbers, who demanded 
his money. 

Valentine told them, that he was a man crossed 
by adversity, that he was going into banishment, 
and that he had no money, the clothes he had on 
being all his riches. 

The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed 
man, and being struck with his noble air and 
manly behaviour, told him, if he would live with 
them, and be their chief, or captain, they would 
put themselves under his command; but that if 
he refused to accept their offer, they would kill 
him. 

Valentine, who cared little what became of 
himself, said, he would consent to live with them 
and be their captain, provided they did no out- 
rage on w^omen or poor passengers. 

Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin 
Hood, of whom we read in ballads, a captain of 
robbertj and outlawed banditti: and in this situa- 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 105 

tion he was found by Silvia, and in this manner 
it came to pass. 

Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom 
her father insisted upon her no longer refusing, 
came at last to the resolution of following Valen- 
tine to Mantua, at which place she had heard her 
lover had taken refuge; but in this account she 
was misinformed, for he still lived in the forest 
among the robbers, bearing the name of their 
captain, but taking no part in their depredations, 
and using the authority which they had imposed 
upon him in no other way, than to compel them 
to show compassion to the travellers they robbed. 

Silvia contrived to effect her escape from her 
father's palace in company with a worthy old gen- 
tleman, whose name was Eglamour, whom she 
took along with her for protection on the road. 
She had to pass through the forest where Valen- 
tine and the banditti dvv'^elt; and one of these 
robbers seized on Silvia, and would also have ta 
ken Eglamour, but he escaped. 

The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the 
terror she was in, bid her not be alarmed, for that 
he was only going to carry her to a cave where 
his captain Uved, and that she need not be afraid, 
for their captain had an honourable mind, and 
always showed humanity to women. Silvia found 
little comfort in hearing she was going to be car- 
ried as a prisoner before the captain of a lawless 
banditti. "0 Valentine," she cried, "this I en- 
dure for thee!" 

But as the robbe r was conveying her to th(j 
cave of his captain, he was stopped by Protheus, 
who, still attended by Julia in the disguise of a 
page, having heai'd of the flight of Silvia, had 



106 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

traced her steps to this forest. Protheus now res- 
cued her from the hands of the robber: but scarce 
had she time to thaniv him for the service he had 
done her, before he began to distress her afresh 
with his love-suit: and while he was rudely press- 
ing her to consent to marry him, and his page 
(the forlorn Juha) was standing beside him in 
great anxiety of mind, fearing lest the great ser- 
vice which Protheus had just done to Silvia should 
win her to show him some favour, they were all 
strangely surprised with the sudden appearance 
of Valentine, who, having heard his robbers had 
taken a lady prisoner, came to console and re- 
lieve her. 

Protheus was courting Silvia, and he was so 
much ashamed of being caught by his friend, that 
he was all at once seized with penitence and re- 
morse; and he expressed such a lively sorrow for 
the injuries he had done to Valentine, that Va- 
lentine, whose nature was noble and generous, 
even to a romantic degree, not only forgave and 
restored him to his former place in his friendship, 
but in a sudden flight of heroism, he said, " I 
freely do forgive you; and all the interest I have 
in Silvia, I give it up to you." Juha, who was 
standing beside her master as a page, hearing this 
strange offer, and fearing Protheus would not be 
able with this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia, 
fainted, and they w^ere all employed in recover- 
ing her: else would Silvia have been offended a1 
being thus made over to Protheus, though she 
could scarcely think that Valentine would long 
persevere in this overstrained and too generous 
act of friendship. When Julia recovered from 
tlie fainting fit, she said, " I had forgot, my mas- 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 107 

t*^r ordered me to deliver this ring to Silvia." 
Protheus, looking upon the ring, saw that it was 
the one he gave to Juha, in return for that which he 
received from her, and which he had sent by the 
supposed page to Silvia. " How is this?" said he, 
" this is JuUa's ring: how came you by it, boy?' 
Juha answered, " Julia herself did give it me, 
and Juha herself hath brought it hither." 

Protheus, now looking earnestly upon her, 
plainly perceived that the page Sebastian was no 
other than the lady Julia herself: and the proof 
she had given of her constancy and true love so 
wrought in him, that his love for her returned 
into his heart, and he took agam his own dear 
lady, and joyfully resigned all pretensions to the 
lady Silvia to Valentine, who had so well deserv- 
ed her. 

Protheus and Valentine were expressing their 
happiness in their reconciliation, and in the love 
of their faithful ladies, when they were surprised 
with the sight of the duke of Milan and Thurio, 
who came there in pursuit of Silvia. 

Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize 
Silvia, saying, " Silvia is mine." Upon this Va- 
lentine said to him in a very spirited manner, 
" Thurio, keep back: if once again you say that 
Silvia is yours, you shall embrace your dealh. 
Here she stands, take but possession of her with 
a touch! I dare you but to breathe upon my love." 
Hearing this threat, Thurio, who v^as a great 
cov/ard, drew back, and said he cared not for her, 
and that none but a fool would fight for a girl who 
loved him not. 

The duke, who was a veiy brave man himself, 
said now in great anger, ''The more base and 



108 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

degenerate in you to take such means for her as 
you have done, and leave her on such sHght con- 
ditions." Then turning to Valentine, he said, 
" I do applaud your spirit, Valentine, and think 
you worthy of an empress's love. You shall have 
Silvia, for you have well deserved her." Valen- 
tine then with great humility kissed the duke's 
hand, and accepted the noble present which he 
had made him of his daughter with becoming 
thankfulness: taking occasion of this joyful mi- 
nute to entreat the good-humoured duke to par- 
don the thieves with whom he had associated in 
the forest, assuring him, that when reformed and 
restored to society, there would be found among 
them many good, and fit for great employment; 
for the most of them had been banished, like Va- 
lentine, for state oifences, rather than for any 
black crimes they had been guilty of. To this 
the ready duke consented: and now nothing re- 
mained but that Protheus, the false friend, was 
ordained, by way of penance for his love-prompt- 
ed faults, to be present at the recital of the whole 
story of his loves and falsehoods before the duke; 
and the shame of the recital to his awakened con- 
science v/as judged sufficient punishment: which 
being done, the lovers, all four, returned back to 
Milan, and their nuptials were solemnized in pre- 
sence of the duke, with high triumphs and feasting, 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice: he was au 
usurer, v/ho had amassed an immense fortune by 
lending money at great interest to Christian mer- 
chants. Shylock, being a hard-hearted man, ex- 
acted the payment of the money he lent with 
such severity, that he was much disliked by all 
good men, and particularly by Anthonio, a young 
merchant of Venice; and Shylock as much hated 
Anthonio, because he used to lend money to peo- 
ple in distress, and would never take any interest 
for the money he lent; therefore there was great 
enmity between this covetous Jew and the gene- 
rous merchant Anthonio. Whenever Anthonio 
met Shylock on the Rialto (or Exchange,) he 
used to reproach him with his usuries and hard 
dealings; which the Jew would bear with seem- 
ing patience, while he secretly meditated revenge. 

Anthonio was the kindest man that lived, the 
best conditioned, and had the most unwearied 
spirit in doing courtesies; indeed he was one in 
whom the ancient Roman honour more appeared 
than in any that drew breath in Italy. He w^as 
greatly beloved by aU liis fellow-citizens; but the 
friend who was nearest and dearest to his heart 
was Bassanio, a noble Venetian, who, having but 
a small patrimony, had nearly exhausted his little 
fortune by living in too expensive a manner for 
his slender means, as young men of high rank 
with small fortunes are too apt to do. Whenever 
Bassanio wanted money, Anthonio assisted hira; 
10 



110 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

and it seemed as if they had but one heart and 
one purse between them. 

One day Bassanio came to Anthonio, and told 
him that he wished to repair his fortune by a 
w^ealthy marriage with a lady w^hom he dearly 
loved, whose father, that was lately dead, had left 
lier sole heiress to a large estate; and that in her 
father's lifetime he used to visit at her house, 
when he thought he had observed this lady had 
sometimes from her eyes sent speechless messages, 
that seemed to say he would be no unwelcome 
suitor; but not having money to furnish himself 
with an appearance befitting the lover of so rich 
an heiress, he besought Anthonio to add to the 
many favours he had shown him, by lending him 
three thousand ducats. 

Anthonio had no money by him at that time 
to lend his friend; but expecting soon to have 
some ships come home laden with merchandise, 
he said he would go to Shylock, the rich money- 
lender, and borrow the money upon the credit of ' 
those ships. 

Anthonio and Bassanio went together to Shy- 
lock, and Anthonio asked the Jew to lend him 
three thousand ducats upon an interest he should 
require, to be paid out of the merchandize con- 
tained in his ships at se-a. On this, Shylock 
thought within himself, " If I can once catch him 
on the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I 
bear him: he hates our Jewish nation; he lends 
out money gratis; and among the merchants he 
rails at me and my well-earned bargains, which 
he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe if I for- 
give him!" Anthonio finding he was musing 
within himself and did not answer, and being 



MERCHANT OF VENICE. Ill 

impatient for the money, said, " Shylock, do you 
hear? will you lend the money?" To this ques- 
tion the Jew replied, " Signioi Anthonio, on the 
Rialto many a time and often you have railed at 
me about my monies and ray usuries, and I have 
borne it with a patient shrug, for suiferance is the 
badge of all our tribe; and then you have called 
me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon m.y 
Jewish garments, and spurned at me Vi^ith your 
foot, as if I was a cur. Well then, it now ap- 
pears you need my help; and you come to me, 
^nd say, Shylock, lend me monies. Hay a dog mio- 
ney? Is it possible a cur should lend three thou- 
sand ducats? Shall I bend low and say, Fair sir, 
you spit upon me on Wednesday last, another 
time you called me dog, and for these courtesies 
I am to lend you monies." Anthonio replied, 
*' I am as like to call you so again, to spit on you 
again, and spurn you too. If you will lend me 
this money, lend it not to me as to a friend, but 
rather lend it to me as to an enemy, that, if I 
break, you may with better face exact the penal- 
ty." "Why, look you," said Shylock, "how you 
storm! I would be friends with you, and have 
your love. I will forget the shames you have put 
upon me. I will supply your wants, and take 
no interest for my money." This seemingly kind 
offer greatly surprised Anthonio; and then Shy- 
lock, stiU pretending kindness, and that all he did 
was to gain Anthonio's love, again said hewor'.* 
lend him the three thousand ducats, and take no 
interest for his money; only Anthonio should go 
with him to a lawyer, and there sign in merry 
sport a bond, that if he did not repay the money 
by a certain day. he would forfeit a pound of flesh, 



112 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

to be cut off from any part of his body that Shy 
lock pleased. 

''Content," said Anthonio: "I will sign to 
this bond, and say there is much kindness in the 
Jew." 

Bassanio said, Anthonio should not sign to such 
a bond for him; but still Anthonio insisted that 
he would sign.it, for that before the day of pay- 
ment came, his ships would return laden with 
many times the value of the money. 

Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, '' O 
father Abraham, what suspicious people these 
Christians are! Their own hard dealings teach 
them to suspect the thoughts of others. I pray 
you tell me this, Bassanio: if he should break 
this day, what should I gain by the exaction of 
the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh, taken 
from a man, is not so estimable, nor profitable 
neither, as the flesh of mutton or of beef. I say, 
to buy his favour I offer this friendship: if he 
will take it, so; if not, adieu." 

At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, 
notwithstanding all the Jew had said of his kind 
intentions, did not like his friend should run the 
hazard of this shocking penalty for his sake, An- 
thony signed the bond, thinking it really was (as 
the Jew said) merely in sport. 

The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry 
lived near Venice, at a place called Belmont: her 
name was Portia, and in the graces of her person 
ai5d her mind she was nothing inferior to that 
Portia, of whom we read, who was Cato's daugh- 
ter, and the wife of Brutus. 

Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money 
by his friend Anthonio, at the hazard of his life, 



MERCHANT JF VENICE. 113 

set out for Belmont with a splendid train, and at- 
tended by a gentleman of the name of Gratiano. 

Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia 
in a short time consented to accept of him for a 
husband. 

Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no 
fortune, and that his high birth and noble ances- 
try was all that he could boast of; she, who loved 
him for his worthy qualities, and had riches 
enough not to regard v/ealth in a husband, an- 
swered with a graceful modesty, that she would 
wish herself a thousand times more fair, and ten 
thousand times more rich, to be more worthy of 
him, and then the accomplished Portia prettily 
dispraised herself, and' said she was an unlessoned 
girl, unschooled, unpractised, yet not so old but 
that she could learn, and that she would commit 
her gentle spirit to be directed and governed by 
him in all things; and she said, "Myself and what 
is mine, to you and yours is now converted. But 
yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of this fair 
mansion, queen of myself, and mistress over 
these servants: and now this house, these ser- 
vants, and myself, are yours, m.y lord; I give them 
Avith this rino;:" presentino^ a rmoj to Bassanio. 

Bassanio was so overpowered with gratituae 
and wonder at the gracious manner in which the 
rich and noble Portia accepted of a man of his 
humble fortunes, that he could not express his 
joy and reverence to the dear lady who so ho- 
noured him, by any thing but broken words of 
love and thankfulness; and taking the ring, he 
vowed nevGi to part with it. ^ 

Gratiano, and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, 
were in attendance upon their Jird and lady, 
10* 



114 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

when Portia so gracefully promised to become the 
obedient wife of Bassanio; and Gratiano wishing 
Bassanio and the generous lady joy, desired per- 
mission to be married at the same time. 

''With all my heart, Gratiano,"said Bassanio, 
*'if you can get a wife." 

Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Por- 
tia's fair waiting gentlewoman, Nerissa, and that 
she had promised to be his wife, if her lady mar- 
ried Bassanio. Portia asked Nerissa if this was 
true. Nerissa replied, " Madam, it is so, if you 
approve of it." Portia willingly consenting, Bas- 
sanio pleasantly said, "Then our wedding-feast 
shall be much honoured 4y your marriage, Gra- 
tiano." 

The happiness of these lovers was sadly cross- 
ed at this moment by the entrance of a messen- 
ger, who brought a letter from Anthonio contain- 
ing fearful tidings. When Bassanio read Antho- 
nio's letter, Portia feared it was to tell him of the 
death of some dear friend, he looked so pale; and 
inquiring what was the news which had so dis- 
tressed him, he said, "O sweet Portia, here are 
a few of the unpleasantest words that ever blotted 
paper: gentle lady, when I first imparted my love 
to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had ran 
in my veins; but I should have told you that ] 
had less than nothing, being in debt." Bassanio 
then told Portia what has been here related, of 
his borrowing the money of Anthonio, and of 
Anthonio' s procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and 
of the bond by which Anthonio had engaged to 
forfeit a pound of flesh, if it v/as not repaid by a 
certain day: and then Bassanio read Anthonio' s 
letter; the words of which were, " Sweet Bassa- 



MERCHANT OF VENICE. 115 

nio, my ships are all lost, my bond to the Jew is 
forfeited, and since in paying it is impossible I 
should live, I could wish to see you at my death; 
notwithstaiuUng, use your pleasure; if your love 
for me do not persuade you to come, let not my 
letter." " my dear love," said Portia, "des- 
patch all business and be gone; you shall have 
gold to pay the money twenty times over, before 
this kind friend shall lose a hair by my Bassanio's 
fault; and as you are so dearl}^ bought, I will dearly 
love you." Portia then said she would be mar- 
ried to Bassani j before he set out, to give him a 
legal right to her money; and that same day they 
were married, and Gratiano was also married to 
Nerissa; and Bassanio and Gratiano, the instant 
they were married, set out in great haste for Ve- 
nice, where Bassanio found Anthonio in prison. 

The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew 
Vfould not accept of the money w^hich Bassanio 
offered him, but insisted upon having a pound of 
Anthonio' s flesh. A day Avas appointed to try 
this shocking cause before the duke of Venice, 
and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense the 
event of the trial. 

When Portia parted with her husband, she 
spoke cheeringly to him, and bade him bring his 
dear friend along with him when he returned; 
yet she feared it would go hard with Anthonio, 
and when she was left alone, she began to think 
and consider within herself, if she could by any 
means be instrumental in saving the life of her 
dear Bassanio's friend; and notwithstanding, when 
she wished to honour her Bassanio, she had said 
to him with such a meek and wife-like grace, that 
she would submit ir. all things to be governed by 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

his superior wisdom, yet being now called forth 
into action by the peril of her honoured husband's 
friend, she did nothing doubt her own powers 
and by the sole guidance of her own true and 
perfect judgment, at once resolved to go herself 
to Venice, and speak in Anthonio's defence. 

Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in 
the law; to this gentleman, whose name was 
Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case to him 
desired his opinion, and that with his advice he 
would also send her the dress worn by a coun- 
sellor. When the messenger returned, he brought 
letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, 
and also every thing necessary for her equipment. 

Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in 
men's apparel, and putting on the robes of a 
counsellor, she took Nerissa along with her as her 
clerk; and setting out immediately, they arrived 
at Venice on the very day of the trial. The cause 
was just going to be heard before the duke and 
senators of Venice in the senate-house, when 
Portia entered this high court of justice, and pre- 
sented a letter from Bellario, in which that learn- 
ed counsellor wrote to the duke, saying, he would 
have come himself to plead for Anthonio, but that 
he was prevented by sickness, and he requested 
that the learned young doctor Balthasar (so he 
called Portia) might be permitted to plead in his 
stead. This the duke granted, much wondering 
at the youthful appearance of the stranger, who 
was prettily disguised by her counsellor's robes' 
and her large wig. 

And now began this important trial. Portia 
looked around her, and she saw the merciless 
Jew; and she saw Bassanio, but he knew her not 



MERCHANT OF VENBI^E. 117 

in her disguise. He was standing beside An- 
thonio, in an agony of distress and fear for his 
friend 

The importance of the arduous task Portia haa 
engaged in gave this tender lady courage, and 
she boldly proceeded in the dut}^ she had under- 
taken to perform; and first of all she addressed 
herself to Shylock; and allowing that he had a 
right by the Venetian law to have the forfeit ex- 
pressed in the bond, she spoke so sweetly of the 
noble quality of mercy, as would have softened 
any heart but the unfeeling Shylock's, saying, 
that it dropped as the gentle rain from heaven 
upon the place beneath; and how mercy was a 
double blessing, it blessed him that gave, and him 
that received it; and how it became monarchs 
better than their crowns, being an attribute of 
God himself; and that earthly power came nearest 
to God's, in proportion as mercy tempered jus- 
tice: and she bid Shylock remember that as we 
all pray for mercy, that same prayer should teach 
us to show mercy. Shylock only answered her 
by desiring to have the penalty forfeited in the 
bond. "Is he not able to pay the money?" asked 
Portia. Bassanio then offered the Jew the pay- 
ment of the three thousand ducats as many times 
over as he should desire; which Shylock refusing, 
and still insisting upon having a pound of An- 
thonio's flesh, Bassanio begged the learned young 
counsellor would endeavour to wrest the law a 
little, to save Anthonio's life. But Portia gravely 
answered, that laws once established miust never 
be altered. Shylock hearing Portia say that the 
law might not be altered, it seemea to him that 
she was pleading in his favour, and he said, "A 



118 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Daniel is come to judgment! O wise young judge, 
how I do honour you! How much eider are you 
than your looks!" 

Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at 
the bond; and when she had read it, she said, 
" This bond is forfeited, and by this the Jew may 
lawfully claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut 
off nearest Anthonio's heart." Then she said to 
Shylock, "Be merciful; take the money, and bid 
me tear the bond." But no mercy would the 
cruel Shylock show: and he said, "By my soul 
I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man 
to alter me." Why then, Anthonio," said Portia, 
"you must prepare your bosom for the knife:"" 
and while Shylock was sharpening a long knife 
with great eagerness to cut off the pound of flesh, 
Portia said to Anthonio, " Have you any thing to 
say?" Anthonio with a calm resignation replied, 
that he had but little to say, for that he had pre- 
pared his mind for death. Then he said to Bas- 
sanio, " Give me your hand, Bassanio! Fare you 
well! Grieve not that I have fallen into this mis- 
fortune for you. Commend me to your honour- 
able wife, and tell her how I have loved you!" 
Bassanio in the deepest affliction replied, "An- 
thonio, I am mai-ried to a wife, who is as dear to 
me as life itself; but life itself, my wife, and all 
the world, are not esteemed with me above your 
life: I would lose all, I would sacrifice all to this 
devil here, to deliver you." 

Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted 
lady was not at all offended with her husband for 
expressing the love he owed to so true a friend as 
Anthonio in these strong terms, yet could not 
help answering, " Yc ir wife would give you little 



MERCHANT OF VENICE. 119 

thanks, if she were present, to hear you make 
this offer." And then Gratiano, who loved to 
copy what his lord did, thought he must make a 
speech like Bassanio's, and he said, in Nerissa's 
hearing, who was writing in her clerk's dress by 
the side of Portia, " I have a wife, whom I pro- 
test T love; I wish she were in heaven, if she 
could but entreat some power there to change the 
cruel temper of this currish Jew." It is well you 
wish this behind her back, else you would have 
but an unquiet house," said Nerissa. 

Shylock now cried out impatiently, *' We trifle 
time; I pray pronounce the sentence." And now 
all was awful expectation in ttie court, and every 
heart was fuU of grief for Anthonio. 

Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh 
the flesh; and she said to the Jew, " Shylock, 
you must have some surgeon by, lest he bleed to 
death." Shylock, whose whole intent was that 
Anthonio should bleed to death, said, "It is not 
so named in the bond." Portia replied, " It is not 
so named in the bond, but what of that? It were 
good you did so much for charity." Jo this aU 
the answer Shylock would make was, "I cannot 
find it; it is not in the bond." "Then," said 
Portia, "a pound of Anthonio's flesh is thine. 
The law allows it, and the court awards it. And 
you may cut this flesh from off his breast. The 
law allows it, and the court awards it." Again 
Shylock exclaimed, " wise and upright judge! 
A Daniel is come to judgment!" And then he 
sharpened his long knife again, and looking eager- 
ly on Anthonio, he said, " Come, prepare!" 

"Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia; "there is 
something else. This bond here gives you no 



120 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

drop of blood; the words expressly are, ' a pound 
of flesh.' If in. the cutting off the pound of flesh 
you shed one drop of Christian blood, youT land 
and goods are by the law to be confiscated to the 
state of Venice." Now as it was utterly impos- 
sible for Shylock to cut off the pound of flesh 
without shedding some of Anthonio's blood, this 
wise discovery of Portia's, that it was flesh and 
not blood that was named in the bond, saved the 
life of Anthonio; and all admiring the wonderful 
sagacity of th^ yo^iig counsellor, who had so 
happily thought of this expedient, plaudits re- 
sounded from ever}^ part of the senate-house; and 
Gratiano exclaimed, in the words which Shylock 
had used, "0 wise and upright judge! mark, 
Jew, a Daniel is come to judgment!" 

Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel 
intent, said with a disappointed look, that he 
would take the money; and Bassanio, rejoiced 
beyond measure at Anthonio's unexpected deli- 
verance, cried out, " Here is the money!" But 
Portia stopped him, saying, "Softly; there is no 
haste; the Jew shall have nothing but the penal- 
ty: therefbre prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh; 
but mind you shed no blood; nor do not cut off 
more nor less than just a pound; be it more or 
less by one poor scruple, nay if the scale turn but 
by the weight of a single hair, you are condemn- 
ed by the laws of Venice to die, and all your 
wealth is forfeited to the senate." "Give me my 
money, and let me go," said Shylock. "I have 
it ready," said Bassanio: " Here it is." 

Shylock was going to take the money, when 
Portia again stopped him; saying, "Tarry, Jew; 
I have yet another hold upon you. By the laws 



MERCHANT OF VENICE. 121 

of Venice, your wealth is forfeited to the state, 
for having conspired against the hfe of one of its 
citizens, and your hfe hes at the mercy of the 
dul^e; therefore down on your knees, and ask 
him to pardon you." 

The duke then said to Shylock, "That j'-ou 
may see the difference of our Christian spirit, T 
pardon you your hfe before you ask it; half your 
wealth belongs to Anthonio, the other half comes 
to the state." 

The generous Anthonio then said, that he 
would give up his share of Shylock' s wealth, if 
Shylock would sign a deed to make it over at his 
death to his daughter and her husband; for An- 
thonio knew that the Jew had an only daughter, 
who had lately married against his consent to a 
young Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend of An- 
thonio's, which had so offended Shylock, that he 
had disinherited her. 

The Jew agreed to this: and being thus disap- 
pointed in his revenge, and despoiled of his 
riches, he said, " I am ill. Let me go home; send 
the deed after me, and I will sign over half my 
riches to my daughter." " Get thee gone, then," 
said the duke, " and sign it; and if you repent 
your cruelty and turn Christian, the state will for- 
give you the fine of the other half of your riches." 

The duke now released Anthonio, and dis- 
missed the court. He then highly praised the 
wisdom and ingenuity of the ycnng counsellor 
and mvited him home to dinner. Portia, who 
meant to return to Belmont before her husband, 
replied, " I humbly thank your grace, but I must 
away directly." The duke said he was sorry he 
fiad not leisure to stay and dine with him; and 
11 



122 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

turning to Anthonio, he added, " Reward this 
gentleman: for in my mind you are much indebt- 
ed to him." 

The duke and his senators left the court; and 
then Bassanio said to Portia, "Most worthy gen- 
tleman, I and my friend Anthonio have by your 
wisdom been this day acquitted of grievous penal- 
ties, and I beg you will accept of the three thou- 
sand ducats due unto the Jew." "And we shall 
stand indebted to you over and above," said An- 
thonio, "in love and service evermore." 

Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept 
the money; but upon Bassanio still pressing her 
to accept of some reward, she said, "Give me 
your gloves; I wall wear them for your sake:" 
and then Bassanio taking off his gloves, she es- 
pied the ring which she had given him upon his 
finger: now it was the ring the wily lady wanted 
to get from him to make a merry jest when she 
saw her Bassanio again, that made her ask him 
for his gloves: and she said, when she saw the 
ring, " And for your love I will take this ring 
from you." Bassanio was sadly distressed, that 
the counsellor should ask him for the only thing 
he could not part w^ith, and he replied in great 
confusion, that he could not give him that ring, 
because it was his wife's gift; and he had vowed 
never to part wath it: but that he w^ould give 
him the most valuable ring in Venice, and find 
it out by proclamation. On this Portia affected 
io be affronted, and left the court, saying, "You 
teach me, sir, how a beggar should be answered." 

"Dear Bassanio," answered Anthonio, ''let 
him have the ring; let my love and the great ser- 
vice he has done for me be valued against your 



MERCHANT OF VENICE. 123 

wife's displeasure." Bassanio, ashamed to ap- 
pear so ungrateful, yielded, and sent Gratiano after 
Portia with the ring; and then the clerk Nerissa, 
who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged 
his ring, and Gratiano (not choosing to be out- 
done in generosity by his lord) gave it to iier. 
And there was laughing among these ladies to 
think, w^hen they got home, how they would tax 
their husbands with giving away their rings, and 
sv/ear that they had given them as a present to 
some vroman. 

Portia, when she returned, was in that happy 
temper of mind which never fails to attend the 
consciousness of having performed a good action; 
her cheerful spirits enjoyed every thing she saw: 
the moon never seemed to shine so bright before; 
and when that pleasant moon was hid behind a 
cloud, then a light which she saw from her house 
at Belmont as w^ell pleased her charmed fancy, 
and she said to Nerissa, " That light we see is 
burning in my hall; how far that little candle 
throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a 
naughty world:" and hearing the sound of music 
from her house, she said, "Methinks that music 
sounds much sweeter than by day." 

And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, 
and dressing themselves in their own apparel, 
they awaited the arrival of their husbands, wlio 
soon followed them with Anthonio; and Bassanio 
presenting his dear friend to the lady Portia, the 
congidtulations and welcomings of that lady were 
hardly over, when they perceived Nerissa and 
her husband quarreling in a corner of the room. 
"A quarrel already?" said Portia. "What is the 
matter?" Gratiano replied, " Lady, it is about a 



124 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

paltry gilt ring that Nerissa gave me, with words 
upon it like the poetry on a cutler's knife. Love 
me, and leave me not. 

" What does the poetry or the value of the ring 
signify?" said Nerissa. -"You swore to me when 
I gave it to you, that you would keep it till the 
hour of death; and now you say you gave it to 
the lawyer's clerk. I know you gave it to a wo- 
man." "By this hand," replied Gratiano, "I 
gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a littled scrub- 
bed boy no higher than yourself; he was clerk to 
the young counsellor, that by his wise pleading 
saved Anthonio's life: this prating boy begged it 
for a fee, and I could not for my life deny him." 
Portia said, " You were to blame, Gratiano, to part 
with your Vvdfe's first gift. I gave my lord Bas- 
sanio a ring, and I am sure he would not part 
with it for all the world." Gratiano, in excuse 
for his fault now said, " My lord Bassanio gave 
his ring away to the counsellor, and then the 
boy, his clerk, that took some pains in writing, 
he begged my ring." 

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and 
reproached Bassanio for giving away her ring; 
and she said, Nerissa had taught her what to be- 
Meve, and that she knew some woman had the 
ring. Bassanio was very unhappy to have so 
offended his dear lady, and he said with great 
earnestness, " No, by my honour, no woman had 
it, but a civil doctor, who refused three thousand 
ducats of me, and begged the ring, which when 
1 denied him, he went displeased away. What 
could I do, sweet Portia? I was so besec with 
shame for my seeming ingratitude, that I was 
forced to sen-d the ring after him. Pardon me, 
good lady; had jo\x been there, I think you 



MERCHANT OF VENICE. 



125 



would have begged the ring of me to give the 
worthy doctor." 

"Ah!" said Anthonio, "I am the unhappy 
cause of these quarrels." 

Portia bid Anthonio not to grieve at that, for 
that he was welcome notwithstanding; and then 
Anthonio said, " I once did lend my body for 
Bassanio's sake; and but for him to whom your 
Husband gave the ring, I should have now been 
dead. I dare be bound again, my soul upon the 
forfeit, your lord will never more break his faith 
with you." " Then you shall be his surety," said 
Portia; " give him this ring, and bid him keep it 
better than the other." 

When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was 
strangely surprised to find it was the same he 
gave away; and then Portia told him, how she 
was the young counsellor, and Nerissa was her 
clerk; and Bassanio found, to his unspeakable 
wonder and delight, that it was by the noble 
courage and wisdom of his wife that Anthonio' s 
life was saved. 

And Portia again welcomed Anthonio, and gave 
him letters which by some chance had fallen into 
her hands, which contained an account of An- 
thonio' s ships, that were supposed lost, being 
safely arrived in the harbour. So these tragical 
beginnings of this rich merchant's story were all 
forgotten in the unexpected good fortune which 
ensued; and there was leisure to laugh at the 
comical adventure of the rings, and the husbands 
that did not know their own wives: Gratiano 
merrily swearing, in a sort of rhyming speech, thai 

while he Hved, he'd fear no other thing- 

So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. 
11* 



CYMBELINE. 

During the time of Augustus Cjssar; emperor 
of Rome, there reigned in England (which was 
then called Britain) a king whose name was 
Cymbeline. 

Cymbeline's first wife died when his three chil- 
dren, (two sons and a daughter) were very young. 
Imogen, the eldest of these children, was brought 
up in her father's court; but by a strange chance 
the two sons of Cymbeline were stolen out of 
their nursery, when the eldest was but three years 
of age, and the youngest quite an infant: and 
Cjmibeline could never discover what was be- 
come of them, or by whom they were conveyed 
away. 

Cymbeline was twice married: his second wife 
was a wicked, plotting woman, and a cruel step- 
mother to Imogen, Cymbeline's daughter by his 
first Vv^ife. 

The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wish- 
ed her to many a son of her own by a former 
husband (she also having been twice married:) 
for by this means she hoped, upon the death of 
Cymbeline, to place the crown of Britain upon 
the head of her son Cloten; for she knew that, 
if the king's sons were not found, the princess 
Imogen must be the king's heir. But this design 
was prevented by Imogen herself, who married 
without the consent or even knowledge of her 
father or the queen. 

Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen's 



CYMBELINE. 127 

husband) was the best scholar and most accom- 
plished gentleman of that age. His father died 
fighting in the wars for Cymbeline, and soon af- 
ter his birth his mother died also for grief at the 
loss of her husband. 

Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this 
orphan, took Posthumus (Cymbeline having given 
him that name, because he was born after his fa- 
ther's death,) and educated him in his own court. 

Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by 
the same m^asters, and were play-fellows from 
their infancy: they loved each other tenderly 
when they were children, and their affection con- 
tinuing to increase with their years, when they 
grew up they privately married. 

The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, 
for she kept spies constantly in watch upon the 
actions of her daughter-in-law, and she immedi- 
ately told the king of the marriage of Imogen 
with Posthumus. 

Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbe- 
line, when he heard that his daughter had been 
so forgetful of her high dignity as to marry a 
subject. He commanded Posthumus to leave 
Britain, and banished him from his native countiy 
for ever. 

The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for 
the grief she suffered at losing her husband, of- 
fered to procure them a private meeting before 
Posthumus set out on his journey to Rome, which 
place he had chosen for his residence in his ba- 
nishment: this seeming kindness she showed, the 
the detter to succeed in her future designs in re- 
gard to her son Cloten; for she meant to persuade 
Imogen, when her husband was gone, that her 



128 ^TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

marriage was not lawful, being contracted witli- 
out the consent of the king. 

Imogen and Posthumus took a most affectionate 
leave of each other. Imogen gave her husband 
a diamond ring which had been her mother's, 
and Posthumus promised never to part with the 
ring; and he fastened a bracelet on the arm of 
his wife, which he begged she would preserve 
with great care, as a token of his love: they then 
bid each other farewell, with many vows of ever- 
lasting love and fidelity. 

Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady 
in her father's court, and Posthumus arrived at 
Rome, the place he had chosen for his banish- 
ment. 

Posthumus fell into company at Rome with 
some gay young men of different nations, who 
were talking freely of ladies: each one praising 
the ladies of his own country, and his own mis- 
tress. Posthumus, who had ever his own dear lady 
in his mind, affirmed that his wife, the fair Imo- 
gen, was the most virtuous, wise, and constant 
lady in the world. 

One of these gentlemen, whose name was 
lachimo, being offended that a lady of Britain 
should be so praised above the Roman ladies, his 
countrywomen, provoked Posthumus by seeming 
to doubt the constancy of his so highly-praised 
wife; and at length, after much altercation, Pos- 
thumus consented to a proposal of lachimo' s, that 
he (lachimo) should go to Britain, and endeavour 
to gain the love of the married Imogen. They 
then laid a wager, that if lachimo did not suc- 
ceed in this wicked design, he was to forfeit a 
large sum of money; but if he could win Imo- 



CYMBELINE. 129 

gen's favour, and prevail upon her to give him 
the bracelet which Postliumus had so earnestly 
desired she would keep as a token of his love, 
then the wager was to terminate with Postlmraus 
giving to lachimo the ring, which was Imogen's 
love-present when she parted with her husband. 
Such firm taith had Posthumus in the fidelity of 
Imogen, that he thought he ran no hazard in this 
trial of her honour. 

lachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained ad 
mittance, and a courteous welcome from Imogen 
as a friend of her husband; but when he began 
to make professions of love to her, she repulsed 
him. with disdain, and he soon found that he could 
have no hope of succeeding in his dishonourable 
design. 

The desire lachim^o had to win the wager made 
him now have recourse to a stratagem to impose 
upon Posthumus, and for this purpose he bribed 
some of Imogen's attendants, and was by them 
conveyed into her bedchamber, concealed in a 
large trunk, where he remained shut up till Imo- 
gen was retired to rest, and had faUen asleep; 
and then getting out of the trunk, he examined 
the chamber with great attention, and wrote down 
ever}' thing he saw there, and particularly noticed 
a mole which he observed upon Imogen's neck, 
and then softly unloosing the bracelet from her 
arm, which Posthumus had given to her, he re- 
tired into the chest again; and the next day he 
set off for Rome with great expedition, and boast 
ed to Posthumus that Imogen had given him, the 
bracelet, and likewise permitted him to pass a 
night in her chamber: and in this manner lachi- 
mo told his false tale* " Her bedchamber," said 



130 5'ALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

he, ''was hung with tapestry of silk and silver, 
the story was the proud Cleopatra when she met her 
Anthony, a piece of work most bravely wrought." 

"This is true," said Posthumus; "but this you 
might have heard spoken of without seeing." 

"Then the chimney," said lachimo, "is south 
of the chamber, and the chimney-piece is Diana 
bathing; never saw I figures livelier expressed." 

"This is a thing you might have likewise 
heard," said Posthumus; "for it is much talked of." 

lachimo as accurately described the roof of the 
chamber, and added, " I had almost forgot her 
andirons, they were two winking Cupids made of 
silver, each on one foot standing." He then took 
out the bracelet, and said, " Know you this jewel, 
sir? She gave me this. She took it from her 
arm: I see her yet; her pretty action did outsell 
her gift, and yet enriched it too. She gave it 
me, and said, she prized it once.'" He last of all 
described the mole he had observed upon her neck. 

Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this 
artful recital in an agony of doubt, now broke 
out into the most passionate exclamations against 
Imogen. He delivered up the diamond ring to 
lachimo, which he had agreed to forfeit to him, 
if he obtained the bracelet from Imogen. 

Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to Pi- 
sanio, a gentleman of Britain, who was one of 
Imogen's attendants, and had long been a faithful 
friend to Posthumus; and after telling him what 
proof he had of his wife's disloyalty, he desired 
Pisanio would take Imogen to Milford-haven, a 
sea-port of Wales, and there kill her. And at 
the same time he wrote a deceitful letter to Imo- 
gen, desiring her to go with Pisanio, for that find- 



CYMBELINE. 131 

ing he could live no longer without seeing her, 
though he was forbidden upon pain of death to 
return to Britain, he would come to Milford-Ha- 
ven, at which place he begged she would meet 
him. She, good unsuspecting lady, who loved 
her husband above aU things, and desired more 
than her life to see him, hastened her departure 
with Pisanio, and the same night she received 
the letter she set out. 

When their journey was nearly at an end, Pi- 
sanio, who, though faithful to Posthumus, was not 
faithful to serve him in an evil deed, disclosed to 
Imogen the cruel order he had received. 

Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and 
beloved husband, found herself doomed by that 
husband to suffer death, was afflicted beyond 
measure. 

Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and wait 
with patient fortitude for the time when Posthu- 
mus should see and repent his injustice: in the 
mean time, as she refused in her distress to re- 
turn to her father's court, he advised her to dress 
herself in boy's clothes for more security in tra- 
velling; to which advice she agreed, and thought 
in that disguise she would go over to Rome, and 
see her husband, whom, though he had used her 
so barbarously, she could not forget to love. 

When Pisanio had provided her with her new 
apparel, he left her to her uncertain fortune, be- 
ing obhged to return to court; but before he de- 
parted he gave her a phial of cordial, which he 
said the queen had given him as a sovereign re- 
medy in all disorders. 

The queen, who hated Pisanio because he was 
a friend to Imogen and Posthumus, gave him this 



132 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

phial, which she supposed contained poison, she 
having ordered her physician to give her some 
poison, to try its effects (as she said) upon ani- 
mals: but the physician, knowing her malicious 
disposition, would not trust her with real poison, 
but gave her a drug which would do no other 
mischief than causing a person to sleep with 
every appearance of death for a few hours. This 
mixture, which Pisanio thought a choice cordial, 
he gave to Imogen, desiring her, if she found 
herself ill upon the road, to take it; and so, with 
blessings and prayers for her safety and happy de- 
liverance from her undeserved troubles, he left her. 

Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps 
to the dwelling of her two brothe-rs, who had 
been stolen away in their infancy. Bellarius, 
who stole them away, was a lord in the court of 
Cymbeline, and having been falsely accused to 
the king of treason, and banished from the court, 
in revenge he stole away the two sons of Cymbe- 
line, and brought them up in a forest, where he 
lived concealed in a cave. He stole them through 
revenge, but he soon loved them as tenderly as 
if they had been his own children, educated them 
carefully, and they grew up fine youths, their 
princel}^ spirits leading them to bold and daring 
actions; and as they subsisted by hunting, they 
were active and hardy, and were always pressing 
their supposed father to let them seek their for- 
tune in the v/ars. 

At the cave where these youths dwelt, it was 
Imogen's fortune to arrive. She had lost her way 
in a large forest, through which her road lay to 
Milford-Haven (from whence she meant to em- 
bark for Rome:) and being unable to find any 



tYMBELINE. L33 

place where she could purchase food, she was 
with weariness and hunger almost dying; for it 
is not merely putting on a man's apparel that will 
enable a young lady, tenderly brought up, to bear 
the fatigue of wandering about lonely forests like 
a man. Seeing this cave, she entered, hoping to 
find some one within of whom she could pro- 
cure food. She found the cave empty, but look- 
ing about she discovered some cold meat, and 
her hunger was so pressing, that she could not 
wait for an invitation, but sat down, and began 
to eat. "Ah!" said she, talking to herself, "I see 
a man's life is a tedious one: how tired am I! for 
two nights together I have made the ground my 
bed: my resolution helps me, or I should be sick. 
When Pisanio showed me Milford-Haven from 
the mountain-top, how near it seemed!" Then 
the thoughts of her husband and his cruel man- 
date came across her, and she said, " My dear 
Posthumus, thou art a false one!" 

The two brothers of Imogen, who had been 
hunting with their reputed father Bellarius, were 
by this time returned home. Bellarius had given 
them the names of Polidore and Cadwal, and 
they knew no better, but supposed that Bellarius 
was their father: but the real names of these 
princes were Guiderius and Arviragus. 

Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing 
Imogen, stopped them, saying, "Come not in 
^et; it eats our victuals, or I should think that it 
was a fairy." 

'' What is the matter, sir?" said the young men. 

"By Jupiter," said Bellarius again, "there is an 

angel in the cave, or if not, an earthly paragon." 

So beautiful did Imogen look in her boy's apparel. 

12 



134 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth 
from the cave, and addressed them in these 
words: "Good masters, do not harm me; before 
I entered your cave, I had thought to have begged 
or bought what I have eaten. Indeed I have 
stolen nothing, nor would I, though I had found 
gold strewed on the floor. Here is money for my 
meat, which I would have left on the board when 
I had made my meal, and parted with prayers 
for the provider." They refused her money with 
great earnestness. " I see you are angry with 
me," said the tim.id Iniogen: -''but, sirs, if you 
kill me for my fault, know that I should have 
died if I had not made it." 

''Whither are you bound?" asked Bellarius, 
''and what is your name?" 

" Fidele is my name," answered Imogen. " I 
have a kinsman, who is bound for Italy; he em- 
barked at Milford-Haven, to whom being going, 
almost spent with hunger, I am fallen into this 
oifence." 

"Prithee, fair youth," said old Bellarius, "do 
not think us churls, nor measure our good minds 
by this rude place we live in. You are well en- 
countered; it is almost night. You shall have 
better cheer before you depart, and thanks to stay 
and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome." 

The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed 
Imogen to their cave with many kind expressions, 
saying they would love her (or, a-s they said, him) 
as a brother; and they entered the cave, where 
(they having killed venison when they were 
hunting) Imogen delighted them with her neat 
housewifery, assisting them in preparing their 
supper; for though it is not the custom now for 



CYMBELINE. 135 

young women of high birth to understand cook- 
ery, it was then, and Imogen excelled in this use- 
ful art; and as her brothers prettily expressed it, 
Fidele cut their roots in characters, and sauced 
their broth, as if Juno had been sick, and Fidele 
were her dieter, "And then," said Polidore to 
his brother, "how angel-like he sings!" 

They also remarked to each other, that though 
Fidele smiled so sv/eetly, yet so sad a melan- 
choly did overcloud his lovely face, as if grief 
and patience had together taken possession of 
him. 

For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was 
their near relationship, though they knew it not) 
Imogen (or as the boys called her, Fidele) became 
the doting-piece of her brothers, and she scarcely 
less loved them, thinking that but for the memory 
of her dear Posthumus, she could live and die in 
the cave with these wild forest youths; and she 
gladly consented to stay with them, till she was 
enough rested from the fatigue of travelUng to 
pursue her way to Milford-Haven. 

When the venison they had taken was all eaten, 
and they were going out to hunt for more, Fidele 
could not accompany them, because she was un- 
well. Sorrow, no doubt, for her husband's cruel 
usage, as weU as the fatigue of wandering in the 
forest, v/as the cause of her illness. 

They then bid her farewell, and went to their 
hunt, praising all the way the noble parts and 
graceful demeanour of the youth Fidele. 

Imogen was no sooner left alone than she re- 
collected the cordial Pisanio had given her, and 
drank it off, and presently fell into a sound and 
deathlike sleep. 



136 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

When Bellarius and her brothers returned from 
hunting, Polidore went first into the cave, and 
supposing her asleep, pulled off his heavy shoes, 
that he might tread softly and not awake her: so 
did true gentleness spring up in the minds of 
these princely foresters: but he soon discovered 
that she could not be awakened by any noise, 
and concluded her to be dead, and Polidore la- 
mented over her with dear and brotherly regret, 
as if they had never from their infancy been 
parted. 

Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into 
the forest, and there celebrate her funeral with 
songs and solemn dirges, as was then the custom. 

Imogen's two brothers then carried her to a 
shady covert, and there laying her gently on the 
grass, they sang repose to her departed spirit, and 
covering her over with leaves and flowers, Poli- 
dore said, ''While summer lasts and I live here, 
Fidele, I will daily strew thy sad grave. The 
pale primrose, that flower most like thy face; the 
blue-bell, like thy clear veins; and the leaf of 
eglantine, which is not sweeter than was thy 
breath; all these Twill strew over thee. Yea, 
and the furred moss in winter, when there are no 
flowers to cover thy sweet corse." 

When they had finished her funeral obsequies, 
they departed very sorrowful. 

Imogen had not been long left alone, when, 
the effect of the sleepy drug going off, she awaked, 
and easily shaking off the slight covering of 
leaves and flowers they had thrown over her, she 
arose, and imagining she had been dreaming, she 
said, "I thought I was a cave-keeper, and cook 
to honest creatures ; how came I here, covered 



CYMBELINE. 137 

with flowers?" Not being able to find her way- 
back to the cave, and seeing nothing of her new 
companions, she concluded it was certainly all 
a dream; and once more Imogen set out on her 
weary pilgrimage, hoping at last she should find 
her way to Milford-Haven, and thence get a pas- 
sage in some ship bound for Italy; for all her 
thoughts were still with her husband Posthumus, 
who she intended to seek in the disguise of a page. 

But great events were happening at this time, 
of which Imogen knew nothing; for a war had 
suddenly broken out between the Roman empe- 
ror Augustus Csesar, and Cymbeline the king of 
Britain: and a Roman army had landed to invade 
Britain, and was advanced into the very forest 
over which Imogen was journeying. With this 
army came Posthumus. 

Though Posthumus came over to Britain with 
the Roman army, he did not mean to fight on 
their side against his own countrymen, but in- 
tended to join the army of Britain, and fight in 
the cause of his king who had banished him. 

He still believed Imogen false to him; yet the 
death of her he had so fondly loved, and by his 
own orders too (Pisanio having written him a let- 
ter to say he had obeyed his command, and that 
Imogen was dead.) sat heavy on his heart, and 
therefore he returned to Britain, desiring either 
to be slain in battle, or to be put to death by Cym- 
beline for returning home from banishment. 

Imogen, before she reached Milford-Haven, 
fell into the hands of the Roman army; and her 
presence and deportment recommending her, she 
was made a page to Lucius, the Roman general. 

Cymbeline' s army now advanced to meet the 
12* 



138 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

enemy, and when they entered this forest, Poli- 
dore and Cadwal joined the king's army. The 
young men were eager to engage in acts of va- 
lour, though they httle thought they were going 
to hght for their own royal father: and old Bella- 
rius went with them to the battle. He had long 
since repented of the injury he had done to Cym- 
beline in carrying away his sons; and havmg 
been a warrior in his youth, he gladly joined the 
army to fight for the king he had so injured. 

And now a great battle commenced between 
the two armies, and the Britons would have been 
defeated, and Cymbehne himself killed, but foi 
the extraordinary valour of Posthumus, and Bel- 
larius, and the two sons of Cymbeline. They 
rescued the king, and saved his life, and so en- 
tirely turned the fortune of the day, that the 
Britons "gained the victory. 

When the battle was over, Posthumus, who had 
not found the death he sought for, surrendered 
himself up to one of the officers of Cymbeline, 
wilhng to suffer the death which was to be his 
punishment if he returned from banishment. 

Imogen and the master she served were taken 
prisoners, and brought before Cymbeline, as was 
also her old enemy lachimo, who was an officer 
in the Roman army; and when these prisoners 
were before the king, Posthumus was brought in 
to receive his sentence of death; and at this 
strange juncture of time, Bellarius with PoHdore 
and Cadwal were also brought before Cymbeline, 
to receive the rewards due to the great services 
they had by their valour done for the king. Pi- 
sanio, being one of the king's attendants, was 
ukewise present. 



CYMBELINE. 139 

Therefore there were now standing In the king's 
presence (but with very different hopes and fears) 
Posthamus, and Imogen, with her nev/ master the 
Roman general; the faithful servant Pisanio, and 
the false fiiend lachimo; and likewise the two 
lost sons of Cymbeline, with Bellarius, who had 
stolen them away. 

The Roman general was the first who spoke; 
the rest stood silent before the king, though there 
was many a beating heart among them. 

Imogen saw Posthumus and knew him, though 
he was in the disguise of a peasant; but he did 
not know her in her male attire: and she knew 
lachimo, and she saw a ring on his finger which 
she perceived to be her own, but she did not 
know him as yet to have been the author of all 
her troubles: and she stood before her own father 
a prisoner of war. 

Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had 
dressed her in the garb of a boy. "It is my 
mistress," thought he; "since she is living, let 
the time run on to good or bad." Bellarius knew 
her too, and softly said to Cadwal, " Is not this 
boy revived from death?" " One sand," replied 
Cadwal, "does not more resemble another than 
that sweet rosy lad is like the dead Fidele. "The 
same dead thing alive," said Polidore. "Peace, 
peace," said Bellarius; "if it were he, I am sure 
he would have spoken to us." " But we saw him 
dead," again whispered PoUdore. "Be silent," 
rephed Bellarius. 

Posthumus waited in silence to hear the wel- 
come sentence of his own death: and he resolved 
not to disclose tD the king that he had saved his 



I 



140 TALES FRDM SHAKSPEARE. 

life in the battle, lest that should move Cymbe- 
line to pardon him. 

Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken 
Imogen under his protection as his pas^e, was the 
first (as has been before said) who spoke to the 
king. He was a man of high courage and noble 
dignity, and this was his speech to the king: 

" I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, 
but doom them all to death: I am a Roman, and 
with a Roman heart will suffer death. But there 
is one thing for which I would entreat." Then 
bringing Imogen before the king, he said, "This 
boy is a Briton born. Let him be ransomed. He 
is my page. Never master had a page so kind, 
so duteous, so diligent on all occasions, so true, 
so nurse-like. He hath done no Briton wrong, 
though he hath served a Roman. Save him, if 
you spare no one beside." 

Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter 
Imogen. He knew her not in that disguise: but 
it seemed that all-powerful Nature spake in his 
heart, for he said, " I have surely seen him, his 
face appears familiar to me. I know not why or 
wherefore I say. Live, boy: but I give you your 
life, and ask of me what boon you will, and I will 
grant it you. YeA, even though it be the hfe of 
the noblest prisoner I have." 

'' I humbly thank your highness," said Imogen. 

What was then called granting a boon was the 
same as a promise to give any one thing, what- 
ever it might be, that the person on whom that 
favour was conferred chose "^o ask for. They all 
were attentive to hear what thing the page would 
ask for; and Lucius her master said to her, " I do 
not beg my life, good lad, but I know that is what 



CYMBELINE. 



Ill 



you will ask for." "No, no, alas!" said Imogen, 
"I have other work in hand, good master; your 
life I cannot ask for." 

This seeming want of gratitude in the boy as- 
tonished the Roman general. 

Imogen then, fixing her eye on lachimo, de- 
manded no other boon than this, that lachimo 
should be made to confess whence he had the 
ring he wore on his finger. 

Cymbeline granted her this boon, and threat- 
ened lachimo with the torture if he did not con- 
fess how he came by the diamond ring on his 
finger. 

lachimo then made a full acknowledgement of 
all his villany, telling, as has been before related, 
the whole story of his wager v/ith Posthumus, 
and how he had succeeded in imposing upon his 
credulity. 

What Posthumus feJt at hearing this proof of 
the innocence of his lady, cannot be expressed. 
He instantly came forward, and confessed to Cym- 
beline the cruel sentence which he had enjoined 
Pisanio to execute upon the princess; exclaiming 
v^rildly, " Imogen, my queen, my hfe, my wife! 
Imogen, Imogen, Imogen!" 

Imogen could not see her beloved husband in 
this distress without discovering herself, to the 
unutterable joy of Posthumus, who was thus re- 
Ueved from a weight of guilt and woe, and re- 
stored to the good graces of the dear lady he had 
so cruellj/ treated. 

C3^mbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as he 
with joy, at finding his lost daughter so strangely 
recovered, received her to her former place in his 
fatherl}^ affection, and nit only gave her husband 



142 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Posthumus his life, but consented to acknowledge 
him for his son-in-law. 

Bellarius chose this time of joy and reconcilia- 
tion to make his confession. He presented Poli- 
dore and Cadwal to the king, telling him they 
were his two lost sons Guiderius and Arviragns. 

Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius; for who could 
think of punishments at a season of such universal 
happiness? To find his daughter living, and his 
lost sons in the persons of his young deliverers, 
that he had seen so bravely fight in his defence, 
was unlooked-for joy indeed! 

Imogen was now at leisure to perform good 
services for her late master, the Roman general 
Lucius, whose life the king her father readily 
granted at her request; and by the mediation of 
the same Lucius a peace was concluded between 
the Romans and the Britons, which was kept in- 
violate many years. 

How Cymbeline's wicked queen, through de- 
spair of bringing her projects to pass, and touched 
with remorse of conscience, sickened and died, 
having first lived to see her foolish son Cloten 
slain in a quarrel which he had provoked, are 
events too tragical to interrupt this happy conclu- 
sion by more than merely touching upon. It is 
sufficient that all were made happy, who were 
deserving; and even the treacherous lachimo, in 
consideration of his villany having missed its final 
aim, was dismissed without punishment. 



KIAG LEAR. 

Lear, king of Britain, had three daughtere; 
Gunerill, wife to the duke of Albany; Regan, 
wife to the duke of Cornwall; and Cordelia, a 
young maid, for whose love the king of France 
and duke of Burgundy were joint suitors, and 
were at this time making stay for that purpose in 
the court of Lear, 

The old king, worn out with age and the fa- 
tigues of government, he being more than four- 
score years old, determined to take no further 
pa:-t in state affairs, but to leave the management 
to younger strengths, that he might have time to 
prepare for death, which must at no long period 
ensue. With this intent he called his three 
daughters to him, to know from their own lips 
which of them loved him best, that he might part 
his kingdom among them in such proportions as 
their affection for him should seem to deserve. 

Gonerill, the eldest, declared that she loved her 
father more than words could give out, that he 
was dearer to her than the light of her own eyes, 
dearer than life and liberty, with a deal of such 
professing stuff, which is easy to counterfeit where 
there is no real love, only a few fine words deli- 
vered with confidence being wanted in that case. 
The king, delighted to hear from her own mouth 
this assurance of her love, and thinking truly 
that her heart went with it, in a fit of fatherly 
fondness bestowed upon her and her husband one 
third of his ample kingdom. 



144 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Then calling to him his second daughter, he 
demanded what she had to say. Regan, who was 
made of the same hollow meta-l as her sister, was 
not a whit behind in her professions, but rather 
declared that what her sister had spoken came 
short of the love which she professed to bear for 
his highness: insomuch that she found all other 
joys dead, in comparison with the pleasure which 
she took in the love of her dear king and father. 

Lear blessed himself in having such loving 
children, as he thought: and could do no less, 
after the handsome assurances which Regan had 
made, than bestow a third of his kingdom upon 
her and her husband, equal in size to that w hich 
he had already given away to Gonerill. 

Then turning to his youngest daughter Cor- 
delia, whom he called his joy, he asked what she 
had to say; thinking no doubt that she would 
glad his ears with the same loving speeches w^hich 
her sisters had uttered, or rather that her expres- 
sions would be so much stronger than theirs, as 
she had always been his darling, and favoured by 
him above either of them. But Cordelia, dis- 
gusted with the flattery of her sisters, whose 
hearts she knew were far from their lips, and see- 
ing that all their coaxing speeches were only in- 
tended to wheedle the old king out of his domi- 
nions, that they and their husbands might reign 
in his lifetime, mf.de no other reply but this, that 
that she loved his majesty according to her duty, 
neither more nor less. 

The king, shocked with t!\iis appearance of in- 
gratitude in his favourite child, desired her to 
consider her words, and to mend her speech, lest 
it should mar her fortunes . 



KING LEAR. 145 

Cordelia then told her father, that he was her 
father, that he had given her breeding, and loved 
her, that she returned those duties back as was 
most fit, and did obey him, love him, and most 
honour him. But that she could not frame her 
mouth to such large speeches as her sisters bad 
done, or promise to love nothing else in the world. 
Why had her sisters husbands, if (as they said) 
they had no love for any thing but their father? 
If she should ever wed, she was sure the lord to 
w^hom she gave her hand would want half her 
love, half of her care and duty; she should never 
marry like her sisters, to love her father all. 

Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father 
even almost as extravagantly as her sisters pre- 
tended to do, would have plainly told him so at 
any other time, in more daughter-like and lovmg 
te]-ms, and without these qualifications which did 
indeed sound a little ungracious: but after the 
crafty flattering speeches of her sisters, which 
she had seen draw such extravagant rewards, she 
thought the handsomest thing she could do was 
to love and be silent. This put her affection out 
of suspicion of mercenary ends, and showed that 
she loved, but not for gain; and that her profes- 
sions, the less ostentatious they were, had so much 
the more of truth and sincerity than her sisters. 

This plainness of speech, which Lear called 
pride, so enraged the old monarch — who in his 
best of times always showed much of spleen and 
rashness, and in whom the dotage incident to old 
age had so clouded over his reason, that he could 
not discern truth from flattery, nor a gay painted 
speech from words that came from the heart — 
that in a'fury of resentment he retracted the third 
13 



146 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

part of his kingdom which yet remained, and 
which he had reserved for Cordelia, and gave it 
away from her, sharing it equally between her 
two sisters and their husbands, the dukes of Al- 
bany and Cornwall: whom he now called to him, 
and in presence of all his courtiers, bestowing a 
coronet between them, invested thera jointly 
with all the power, revenue, and execution of 
government, only retaining to himself the name 
of king; all the rest of royalty he resigned: with 
this reservation, that himself, with a hundred 
knights for his attendants, was to be maintained 
by monthly course in each of his daughter's pa- 
laces in turn. 

So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so 
little guided by reason, and so much by passion, 
filled all his courtiers with astonishment and sor- 
row; but none of them had the courage to inter- 
pose between this incensed king and his wrath, 
except the earl of Kent, who was beginning to 
speak a good word for Cordelia, when the pas- 
sionate Lear on pain of death commanded him 
to desist: but the good Kent was not so to be re- 
pelled. He had been ever loyal to Lear, whom 
he had honoured as a king, loved as a father, fol- 
lowed as a master: and had never esteemed his 
life further than as a pawn to wage against his 
royal master's enemies, nor feared to lose it when 
Lear's safety was the motive: nor now that Lear 
was most his own enemy, did this faithful servant 
of the king forget his old principles, but manfully 
opposed Lear, to do Lear good; and was unman- 
nerly only because Lear was mad. He had been 
a most faithful counsellor in times past to the 
king; and he besought him now, that he would 



KING LEAR. 147 

see with his eyes (as he had done in many weighty 
matters,) and go by his advice still; and in his 
best consideration recall this hideous rashness: 
for he would answer with his life, his judgment 
that Lear's youngest daughter did not love him 
least, nor were those empty-hearted whose low 
sound gave no token of hollowness. When power 
bowed to flattery, honour was bound to plainness. 
For Lear's threats, what could he do to him, whose 
life was already at his service? That should not 
hinder dutyfrom speaking. 

The honest freedom of this good earl of Kent 
only stirred up the king's wrath the more, and 
like a frantic patient who kills his physician, and 
loves his mortal disease, he banished this true 
servant, and allotted him but five days to make 
his preparations for departure; but if on the sixth 
his hated person was found within the realm of 
Britain, that moment was to be his death. And 
Kent bade farewell to the king, and said, that 
since he chose to show himself in such fashion, 
it was but banishment to stay there; and before 
he went, he recommended Cordelia to the pro- 
tection of the gods, the maid who had so rightly 
thought, and so discreetly spoken; and only wish- 
ed that her sisters' large speeches might be an- 
swered with deeds of love: and then he went, as 
he said, to shape his old course to a new country. 

The king of France and duke of Burgundy 
were now called in to hear the determination of 
Lear about his youngest daughter, and to know 
whether they would persist in their courtship to 
Cordelia, now that she was under her father's 
displeasure, and had no fortune but her own per- 
son to recommend her: and the duke of Bur- 



148 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

gundy declined the match, and would not take 
her to wife upon such conditions: but the king 
of France, understanding what the nature of the 
fault had been which had lost her the love of her 
father, that it was only a tardiness of speech, and 
the not being able to frame her tongue to flattery 
like her sisters, took this young maid by the 
hand, and saying that her virtues were a dowry 
above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell 
of her sisters, and of her father, though he had 
been unkind, and she should go with him, and 
be queen of him and of fair France, and reign 
over fairer possessions than her sisters: and he 
called the duke of Burgundy in contempt a wa- 
terish duke, because his love for this young maid 
had in a moment run all away like water. 

Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave 
of her sisters, and besought them to love their 
father well, and make good their professions: and 
they sullenly told her not to prescribe to them, 
for they knew their duty; but to strive to content 
her husband, who had taken her (as thev taunt- 
ingly expressed it) as Fortune's alms. And Cor- 
delia with a heavy heart departed, for she knew 
the cunning of her sisters, and she wished her 
father in better hands than she was about to leave 
him in. 

Cordelia was no sooner gone than the devilish 
dispositions of her sisters began to show them.- 
selves in their true colours. Even before the ex- 
piration of the first month, which Lear was to 
spend by agreement with his eldest daughter 
Gonerill, the old king began to find out the dif- 
ference between promises and performances. 
This wretch having got from her father ail that he 



KING LEAR. J 49 

had to bestow, even to the giving away of the 
crown from off his head, began to grudge even 
those small remnants of royal y which the old 
man had reserved to himself, to please his fancy 
with the idea of being still a king. She could 
not bear to see him and his hundred knights. 
Every lime she met her father, she put on a 
frowning countenance; and when the old man 
wanted to speak with her, she would feign sick- 
ness, or any thing to be rid of the sight of him; 
for it was plain that she esteemed his old age a 
useless burden, and his attendants an unnecessary 
expense: not onlj she herself slackened in her 
expressions of duty to the king, but by her ex- 
ample, and (it is to be feared) not without her pri- 
vate instructions, her very servants affected to 
treat him with neglect, and would either refuse 
to obey his orders, or still more contemptuously 
pretend not to hear them. Lear could not but 
perceive this alteration in the behaviour of his 
daughter, but he shut his eyes against it as long 
as he could, as people commonly are unwilling 
to believe the unpleasant consequences which 
their own mistakes and obstinacy have brought 
upon them. 

True love and fidelity are no more to be es- 
tranged by ill, than falsehood and hollow-hearted- 
ness can be conciliated by good usage. This emi- 
nently appears in the instance of the good earl 
of Kent, who, though banished by Lear, and his 
Ufe made forfeit if he were found in Britain, chose 
to stay and abide all consequences, as long as 
there was a chance of his being useful to the king 
his master. See to what mean shifts and dis- 
guises Door loyalty is forced to submit sometimes; 
'13* 






150 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

yet it counts nothing base or unworthy, so as it 
can but do service where it owes an oblig-ation! 
In the disguise of a serving-man, all his great- 
ness and pomp laid aside, this good earl proffered 
his services to the king, who not knowing him to 
be Kent in that disguise, but pleased with a cer- 
tain plainness, or rather bluntness in his answers 
which the earl put on (so different from that 
smooth oily flattery which he had so much rea- 
son to be sick of, having found the effects not an- 
swerable in his daughter,) a bargain was quickly 
struck, and Lear took Kent into his service by the 
name of Caius, as he called himself, never sus- 
pecting him to be his once great favourite, the 
high and mighty earl of Kent. 

This Caius quickly found means to show his 
fidelity and love to his royal master; for Gone- 
rill's steward that same day behaving in a disre- 
spectful manner to Lear, and giving him saucy 
looks and language, as no doubt he was secretly 
encouraged to do by his mistress, Caius not en- 
during to hear so open an affront put upon ma- 
jesty, made no more ado but presently tripped 
up his heels, and laid the unmannerly slave in 
the kennel; for which friendly service Lear be- 
came more and more attached to him. 

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In 
his degree, and as far as so insignificant a per 
sonage could show his love, the poor fool, oi 
jester, that had been of his palace while Lear had 
a palace, as it was the custom of kings and great 
personages at that time to keep a fool (as he was 
called) to make them sport after serious business: 
this poor fool clung to Lear after he had given 
away his crown, and by his witty sayings would 



KING LEAR. 151 

keep up his good humouFj though he could not 
refrain sometimes from jeering at his master for 
his imprudence, in uncrowning himself, and giv- 
ing all away to his daughters: at which time, as 
he rhymingly expressed it, these daughters 

For sudden joy did weep, 

And he for sorrow sung, 
That such a king should play bo-peep, 

And go the fools among. 

And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, 
of which he had plenty, this pleasant honest fool 
poured out his heart even in the presence of Go- 
rerill herself, in many a bitter taunt and jest 
which cut to the quick: such as comparing the 
king to the hedge-sparrow, who feeds the young 
of the cuckoo till they grow old enough, and then 
has its head bit off for its pains: and saying, that 
an ass may know when the cart draws the horse 
(mxcanmo; that Lear's daughters, that ought to go 
behind, now ranked before their father;) and that 
Lear was no longer Lear, but the shadow of Lear: 
for which free speeches he was once or twice 
threatened to be whipped. 

The coolness and falling off of respect which 
Lear had begun to perceive, were not all which 
this foolish fond father was to suffer from his un- 
worthy daughter: she now plainly told him that 
his staying in her palace was inconvenient so 
long as he insisted upon keeping up an establish- 
ment of a hundred knights: that this establish- 
ment was useless and expensive, and only served 
to fill her court with riot and feasting; and she 
prayed him that he would lessen their number, 



152 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

and keep none but old men about him, such as 
himself, and fitting his age. 

Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, 
nor that it was his daughter who spoke so un- 
kindly. He could not believe that she who had 
received a crown from him could seek to cut oiF 
his train, and grudge him the respect due to his 
old age. But she persisting in her undutiful de- 
mand, the old man's rage was so excited, that he 
called her a detested kite, and said that she spoke 
an untruth: and so indeed she did, for the hun- 
dred knights were all men of choice behaviour 
and sobriety of manners, skilled in all particulars 
of duty, and not given to rioting and feasting as 
she said. And he bid his horses to be prepared, 
for he would go to his other daughter, Regan, he 
and his hundred knights: and he spoke of ingra- 
titude, and said it was a marble-hearted devil, and 
showed more hideous in a child than the sea- 
monster. And he cursed his eldest daughter 
Gonerill so as was terrible to hear: praying that 
she might never have a child, or if she had, that 
it might live to return that scorn and contempt 
upon her, which she had shown to him: that she 
might feel how sharper than a serpent's tooth it 
was to have a thankless child. And Gonerill' s 
husband, the duke of Albany, beginning to ex- 
cuse himself for any sKare which Lear might sup- 
pose he had in the unkindness, Lear would not 
hear him out, but in a rage ordered his horses to 
be saddled, and set out with his followers for the 
abode of Regan, his other daughter. And Lear 
thought to himself how small the fault of Cor- 
delia (if it waf a fault) now appeared, in compa- 
rison with her sister's, and he w^ept; and then he 



KING LEAR. 153 

was ashamed that such a creature as Gonerill 
should have so much power over his manhood as 
to make him weep. 

Regan and her husband were keeping their 
court in great pomp and state at their palace: and 
Lear dispatched his servant Caius with letters to 
his daughter, that she might be prepared for his 
reception, while he and his train followed after 
But it seems that Gonerill had been beforehand 
with him, sending letters also to Regan, accusing 
her father of waywardness and ill humours, and 
advising her not to receive so great a train as he , 
w^as bringmg with him. This messenger arrived 
at the same time with Caius, and Caius and he 
met: and who should it be but Caius' s old enemy 
the steward, whom he had formerly tripped up 
by the heels for his saucy behaviour to Lear. 
Caius not hking the fellow's look, and suspecting 
what he came for, began to revile him, and chal- 
lenged him to fight, which the fellow refusing, 
Caius, in a fit of honest passion, beat him soundly, 
as such a mischief-maker and carrier of wicked 
messages deserved: which coming to the ears of 
Regan and her husband, they ordered Caius to 
be put in the stocks, though he was a messenger 
from the king her father, and in that character ^ 
dem.anded the highest respect: so that the first 
thins: the kino- saw when •he entered the castle, 

••••IT 

was his faithful servant Caius sitting m that dis- 
graceful situation. 

This was but a bad omen of the reception which 
he w^as to expect; but a worse followed, when 
upon inquiry for his daughter and her husband, 
he was told they were weary with travelling all 
night, and could not see him: and when lastly^ 



154 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE 

upon his insisting in a positive and angry manner 
to see them, they came to greet him, whom should 
he see in their company but the hated Gonerill, 
who had come to tell her own stor}^ and set her 
sister against the king her father! 

This sight much moved the old man, and stij] 
more to see Regan take her by the hand: and he 
asked Gonerill if she was not ashamed to look 
upon his old white beard. And Regan advised 
him to go home again with Gonerill and live 
with her peaceably, dismissing half of his atten- 
dants, and to ask her forgiveness; for he was old 
and wanted discretion, and must be ruled and led 
by persons that had more discretion than himself. 
AncT Lear showed how preposterous that would 
sound, if he were to down on his knees, and beg 
of his own daughter for food and raiment, and he" 
argued against such an unnatural dependence, 
declaring his resolution never to return with her, 
but to stay where he was with Regan, he and 
his hundred knights: for he said that she had not 
forgot the half of the kingdom which he had 
endowed her with, and that her eyes were not 
fierce like Gonerill's, but mild and kind. And he 
said that rather than return to Gonerill, with half 
his train cut off, he would go over to France, and 
beg a wretched pension of the king there, who 
had married his youngest daughter without a 
portion. 

But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treat- 
ment of Regan than he had experienced from her 
sister Gonerill. As if willing to outdo her sister 
in unfilial behaviour, she declared that she thought 
fifty knights too many to wait upon him: that 
five-and-twenty were enough. Then Lear, nigh 



KING LEAR. 



155 



heart-broken, turned to Gonerill, and said that he 
would go back with her, for her fifty doubled five- 
and-twenty, and so her love was twice as much 
as Regan's. But Gonerill excused herself, and 
said, what need of so many as five-and-twenty? 
or even ten? or five? when he might be waited 
upon b)' her servants, or her sister's servants? So 
these two wicked daughters, as if they strove to 
exceed each other in cruelty to their old father 
who had been so good to them, by little and little 
would have abated him of all his train, all respect, 
(little enough for him that once commanded a 
kingdom) which was left him to show that he had 
once been a king! Not that a splendid train is 
essential to happiness, but from a king to a beg- 
gar is a hard change, from commanding millions 
to be without one attendant; and it was the in- 
gratitude in his daughters' denying it, more than 
what he would suffer by the want of it, which 
pierced this poor king to the heart: insomuch, 
that with this double ill usage, and vexation for 
having so foolishly given away a kingdom, his 
wits began to be unsettled, and while he said he 
knew not what, he vowed revenge against those 
unnatural hags, and to make examples of them 
that should be a terror to the earth! 

While he was thus idly threatening what his 
weak arm could never execute, night came on, 
and a loud storm of thunder and hghtning with 
rain; and his daughters still persisting in their 
resolution not to admit his followers, he called for 
his horses, and chose rather to encounter the ut- 
most fury of tJie storm abroad, than stay under 
the same roof v/ith these ungrateful daughters: 
and they, saying that the injuries which wilful 






156 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

men procure to themselves are their just punish- 
ment, suffered him to go in that condition, and 
shut their doors upon him. 

The winds were high, and the rain and storm 
increased, when the old man sallied forth to com- 
oat with the elements, less sharp than his daugh- 
ters' unkindness. For many miles about there 
was scarce a bush; and there upon a heath, ex- 
posed to the fury of the storm in a dark night, 
did king Lear wander out, and defy the winds 
and the thunder: and he bids the winds to blow 
the earth into the sea, or swell the waves of the 
sea, till they drowned the earth, that no token 
might remain of any such ungrateful animal as 
man. The old king was now left with no other 
companion than the poor fool, who still abided 
with him, with his merry conceits striving to out- 
jest misfortune, saying, it was but a naughty night 
to swim in, and truly the king had better go in 
and ask his daughter's blessing: 

But he that has a little tiny wit, 
With heigh ho, the wind and the rain! 
Must make content with his fortunes fit, 
Though the rain it raineth every day: 

and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady's 
pride. 

Thus poorly accompanied this once great mo- 
narch was found by his ever-faithful servant the 
good earl of Kent, now transformed to Caius, 
who ever followed close at his side, though the 
king did not know him to be the earl; and he 
said, "Alas! sir, are you here? creatures that love 
night, love not such nights as these. This dread- 
ful storm has driven the beasts to their hiding 



KING LEAR. 157 

places. Man's nature cannot endure the afflic- 
tion or the fear?" And Lear rebuked him and 
said, these lesser evils were not felt, where a 
greater malady was fixed. When the mind is at 
ease, the body has leisure to be delicate; but the 
tempest in his mind did take all feeling else from 
his senses, but of that which beat at his heart. 
And he spoke of filial ingratitude, and said it was 
all one as if the mouth should tear the hand for 
lifting food to it; for parents were hands and food 
and every thing to children. 

But the good Caius still persisting in his en- 
treaties that the king would not stay out in the 
open air, at last persuaded him to enter a little 
wretched hovel v^^hich stood upon the heath, 
where the fool first entering, suddenly ran back 
terrified, saying that he had seen a spirit. But 
upon examination this spirit proved to be nothing 
more than a poor Bedlam beggar, who had crept 
into this deserted hovel for shelter, and with his 
talk about devils frighted the fool, one of those 
poor lunatics who are either mad, or feign to be 
so, the better to extort charity from the compas- 
sionate country people, Vv^ho go about the country, 
calling themselves poor Tom and poor Turlygood, 
saying, "Who gives any thing to poor Tom?" 
sticking pins and nails and sprigs of rosemary 
into their arms to make them bleed; and with 
such horrible actions, partly by prayers, and 
partly with lunatic curses, they move or terrify 
the ignorant country-folks into giving them alms. 
This poor fellow was such a one; and the king 
seeing him in so wretched a plight, with nothing 
but a blanket about his loins to cover his naked- 
ness, could not be persuaded but that the fellow 
14 



158 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

was some father who had given all away to his 
daughters, and brought himself to that pass: for 
nothing he thought could bring a man to such 
wretchedness but the having unkind daughters. 

And from this and many such wild speeches 
which he uttered the good Caius plainly perceiv- 
ed that he was not in his perfect mind, but that 
his daughters' ill usage had really made him go 
mad. And now the loyalty of this worthy earl 
of Kent showed itself in more essential services 
than he had hitherto found opportunity to per- 
form. For with the assistance of some of the 
king's attendants who remained loyal, he had the 
person of his royal master removed at daybreak 
to the castle of Dover, where his own friends and 
influence, as earl of Kent, chiefly lay: and him- 
self embarking for France, hastened to the court 
of Cordelia, and did there in such moving terms 
represent the pitiful condition of her royal father, 
and set out in such lively colours the inhumanity 
of her sisters, that this good and loving child with 
meny tears besought the king her husband, that 
he would give her leave to embark for England 
W'ith a sufficient power to subdue these cruel 
daughters and their husbands, and restore the 
old king her father to his throne; which being 
granted, she set forth, and with a royal army 
landed at Dover. 

Lear having by some chance escaped from the 
guardians which the good earl of Kent had put 
over him to take care of him in his lunacy, was 
found by some of Cordelia's train, wandering 
about the fields near Dover, in a pitiable condi- 
tion, stark mad and singing aloud to himself, with 
1 crown upon his head which he had made of 



KING LEAR. 159 

straw, and nettles, and other wild weeds that he 
had picked up in the corn-fields. By the advice 
of the physicians, Cordelia, though earnestly de 
sirous of seeing her father, was prevailed upon 
to put off the meeting, till, by sleep and the ope- 
ration of herbs which they gave him, he should 
be restored to greater composure. By the aid of 
these skilful physicians, to whom Cordelia pro- 
mised all her gold and jewels for the recovery of 
the old king, Lear was soon in a condition to see 
his daughter. 

A tender sight it was to see the meetmg be- 
tween this father and daughter: to see the strug- 
gles between the joy of this poor old king at be- 
holding again his once darling child, and the 
shame at receiving such filial kindness from her 
whom he had cast off for so small a fault in his 
displeasure; both these passions struggling with 
the remains of his malady, which in his half- 
crazed brain sometimes made him that he scarce 
remembered where he was, or who it was that so 
kindly kissed him and spoke to him: and then he 
would beg the standers-by not to laugh at him, 
if he were mistaken in thinking this lady to be 
his daughter Cordelia! And then to see him fall 
on his knees to beg pardon of his child; and she, 
good lady, kneeling all the while to ask a blessing 
of him, and telling him that it did not become 
him to kneel, but it was her duty, for she was 
his child, his true and very child Cordelia! And 
she kissed him (as she said) to kiss away all her 
sisters' unkindness, and said that they might be 
ashamed of themselves, to turn their old kind 
father with his white beard out into the cold air, 
when her enemy's dog, though it had bit her (as 



160 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

she prettily expressed it,) should have staid by 
her fire such a night as that, and warmed himself. 
And she told her father how she had come from 
France with purpose to bring him assistance; and 
he said, that she must forget and forgive, for he 
was old and foolish, and did not know what he 
did; but that to be sure she had great cause not 
to love him, but her sisters had none. And Cor- 
delia said, that she had no cause, no more than 
they had. 

So we will leave this old king in the protection 
of this dutiful and loving child, where, by the 
help of sleep and medicine, she and her physi- 
cians at length succeeded in winding up the un- 
tuned and jarring senses which the cruelty of 
his other daughters had so violently shaken. Let 
us return to say a word or two about those cruel 
daughters. 

These monsters of ingratitude, who had been 
so false to their old father, could not be expected 
to prove more faithful to their own husbands. 
They soon grew tired of paying even the appear- 
ance of duty and affection, and in an open way 
showed they had fixed their loves upon another. 
It happened that the object of their guilty loves 
was the same. It w^as Edmund-, a natural son of 
the late earl of Gloucester, who by his treacheries 
had succeeded in disinheriting his brother Edgar, 
the lawful heir, from his earldom, and by his 
wicked practices was now earl himself; a wicked 
man, and a fit object for the love ot such wicked 
creatures as Gonerill and Regan. It falling out 
about this time that the duke of Cornwall Regan's 
husband, died, Regan immediately declareh her 
intention of wedding this earl of Gloucester, 



KING LEAR. 161 

which rousing the jealousy of her sister, to whom 
as well as to Regan this wicked earl had at sun- 
dry times professed love, Gonerill found means to 
make away with her sister by poison: but being 
detected in her practices, and imprisoned by her 
husband the duke of Albany for this deed, and 
for her guilty passion for the earl which had come 
to his ears, she in a fit of disappointed love and 
rage, shortly put an end to her own Hfe. Thus 
the justice of Heaven at last overtook these wick- 
ed daughters. 

While the eyes of all men were upon this 
event, admiring the justice displayed in their de- 
served deaths, the same eyes were suddenly ta- 
ken off from this sight to admire at the mysterious 
ways of the same power in the melancholy fate 
of the young and virtuous daughter, the lady 
Cordelia, whose good deeds did seem to deserve 
a more fortunate conclusion: but it is an awful 
truth, that innocence and piety are not alw^ays 
successful in this world. The forces which Gone- 
rill and Regan had sent out under the command 
of the bad earl of Gloucester were victorious, and 
Cordelia, by the practices of this wicked earl, 
who did not Hke that any should stand between 
him and the throne, ended her life in prison. 
Thus, Heaven took this innocent lady to itself in 
her young years, after showmg her to the world 
an illustrious example of filial duty. Lear did 
not long survive this kind child. 

Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who had 
still attended his old master's steps from the first 
of his daughters' ill usage to this sad period of his 
decay, tried to make him understand that it was 
he who had followed him under the name of 
14% 



162 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Caius; but Lear's care-crazed brain at that time 
could not comprehend how that could be, or how 
Kent and Caius could be the same person: so 
Kent thought it needless to trouble him with ex- 
planations at such at a time; and Lear soon after 
expiring, this faithful servant to the king, between 
age and grief for his old master's vexations, soon 
followed him to the grave. 

How the judgment of Heaven overtook the 
bad earl of Gloucester, whose treasons were dis- 
covered, and himself slain in single combat with 
his brother, the lawful earl; and how GoneriIl'"s 
husband, the duke of Albany, who was innocent 
of the death of Cordelia, and had never encour- 
aged his lady in her wicked proceedings against 
her father, ascended the throne of Britain after 
the death of Lear, is needless here to narrate; 
Lear and his Three Daughters being dead, whose 
adventures alone concern our story. 



MACBETH. 

When Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scot- 
land, there Kved a great thane, or lord, called 
Macbeth. This Macbeth was a near kinsman to 
the king, and in great esteem at court for his va- 
lour and conduct in the wars; an example of 
which he had lately given, in defeating a rebel 
army assisted by the troops of Norway in terrible 
numbers. 

The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Ban- 
quo, returning victorious from this great battle, 
their way lay over a blasted heath, where they 
were stopped by the strange appearance of three 
figures like women, except that they had beards, 
and their withered skins and wild attire made 
them look not like any earthly creatures. Mac- 
beth first addressed them, when they, seemingly 
offended, laid each one her choppy finger upon 
her skinny lips, in token of silence: and the first 
of them saluted Macbeth with the title of thane 
of Glamis. The general was not a little startled 
to find himself known by such creatures; but 
how much more, when the second of them fol- 
lowed up that salute by giving him the title of 
thane of Cawdor, to which honour he had no 
pretensions; and again the third bid him "All 
hail! king that shall be hereafter!" Such a pro- 
phetic greeting might well amaze him, who knew 
that while the king's sons lived he could not hope 
to succeed to the throne. Then turning to Ban- 
quo, they pronounced him, in a sort of riddUng 



I 



164 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

terms, to be lesser than Macbeth and gi^eafer! not 
so happy, but much happier! and prophesied that 
though he should never reign, yet his sons after 
him should be kings in Scotland. They then 
turned into air, and vanished: by which the ge- 
nerals knew them to be weird sisters, or witches. 

¥/hile they stood pondering on the strangeness 
of this adventure, there arrived certain messen- 
gers from the king, who w^ere empowered by him 
to confer upon Macbeth the dignity of thane of 
Cawdor. An event so miraculously correspond- 
ing with the prediction of the witches astonished 
Macbeth, and he stood wrapped in amazement, 
unable to make reply to the messengers: and in 
that point of time swelling hopes arose in his 
mind, that the prediction of the third witch might 
in like manner have its accomplishment, and that 
he should one day reign king in Scotland. 

Turning to Banquo, he said, "Do you not hope 
that your children shall be kings, when what the 
witches promised to me has so wonderfully come 
to pass?" "That hope," answered the general, 
" might enkindle you to aim at the throne: but 
oftentimes these ministers of darkness tell iis 
truths in little things, to betray us into deeds of 
greatest consequence." 

But the wicked suggestions of the witches had 
sunk too deep into the mind of Macbeth to allow^ 
him to attend to the warnings of the good Ban- 
quo. From that time he bent all his thoughts how" 
to compass the throne of Scotland. 

Macbeth had a wife, to w^hom he communicated 
the strange prediction of the weird sisters, and 
its partial accomplishment. She was a bad am- 
bitious woman, and so as her husband and her- 



MACBETH. 165 

self could arrive at greatness, she cared not much 
by what means. She spurred on the reluctant 
purpose of Macbeth, who felt compunction at the 
thoughts of blood, and did not cease to represent 
the murder of the king as a step absolutely ne- 
cessary to the fulfilment of the flattering prophecy. 

It happened at this time that the king, who out 
of his royal condescension would oftentimes visit 
his principal nobility upon gracious terms, came 
to Macbeth' s house, attended by his two sons, 
Malcolm and Donalbain, and a numerous traia 
of thanes and attendants, the more to honour 
Macbeth for the triumphal success of his wars. 

The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, 
and the air about it was sweet and wholesome, 
which appeared by the nests which the martlet, 
or swallovf, had built under all the jutting friezes 
and buttresses of the building, wherever it found 
a place of advantage: for where those birds most 
breed and haunt, the air is observed to be deli- 
cate. The king entered well pleased with the 
place, and not less so with the attentions and re- 
spect of his honoured hostess, lady Macbeth, who 
had the art of covering treacherous purposes with 
smiles: and could look like the innocent flower, 
whil-e she was indeed the serpent under it. 

The king, being tired with his journey, went 
early to bed, and in his state-room two grooms of 
his chamber (as was the custom) slept beside 
him. He had been unusually pleased with his 
reception, and had made presents before he re- 
tired to his principal officers; and among the rest, 
had sent a rich diamond to lady Macbeth, greet- 
ing her by the name of his most kind hostess. 

Now was the middle of nia:ht, vs^hen over half 



166 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the world nature seems dead, and wicked dreams 
abuse men's minds asleep, and none buttliev/olf 
and the murderer is abroad. This was the time 
when lady Macbeth waked to plot the murder of 
the king. She would not have undertaken a deed 
so abhorrent to her sex, but that she feared her 
husband's nature, that it was too full of the milk 
of human kindness, to do a contrived murder. 
She knew him to be ambitious, but withal to be 
scrupulous, and not yet prepared for that height 
of crime v/hich commonly in the end accompa- 
nies inordinate ambition. She had won him to 
consent to the murder, but she doubted his reso- 
lution: and she feared that the natural tenderness 
of his disposition (more humane than her own) 
would come between, and defeat the purpose. So 
with her own hands armed with a dagger, she 
approached the king's bed; having taken care to 
ply the grooms of his chamber so with wine, that 
they slept intoxicated, and careless of their charge. 
There lay Duncan, in a sound sleep after the fa- 
tigues of his journey, and as she viewed him 
earnestly, there was something in his face, as he 
slept, which resembled her own father; and she 
had not the courage to proceed. 

She returned to confer with her husband. His 
resolution had begun to stagger. He considered 
that there were strong reasons against the deed. 
In the first place, he was not only a subject, but 
a near kinsman to the king; and Jhe had been his 
host and entertainer that day, whose duty, by the 
laws of hospitality, it was. to shut the door against 
his murderers, not bear the knife himself Then 
he considered how just and merciful a king this 
Duncan had been, how clear of offence to hifs 



MACBETH. 167 

subjects, how loving to his nobiUty, and in par- 
ticular to him; that such kings are the peculiar 
care of Heaven, and their subjects doubly bound 
to revenge their deaths. Besides, by the favours 
of the king, Macbeth stood high in the opinion 
of all sorts of men, and how would those honours 
be stained by the reputation of so foul a murder' 

In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth 
found her husband, inchning to the better part, 
and resolving to proceed no further. But she 
Deing a woman not easily shaken from her evil 
purpose, began to pour in at his ears words which 
infused a portion of her own spirit into his mind, 
assigning reason upon reason why he should not 
shrink from what he had undertaken; how easy 
the deed was; how soon it would be over; and 
how the action of one short night would give to 
all their nights and days to come sovereign sway 
and royalty! Then she threw contempt on his 
change of purpose, and accused him of fickleness 
and cowardice; and declared that she had given 
suck, and knew how tender it was to love the 
babe that milked her, but she would, while it was 
smiling in her face, have plucked it from her 
breast, and dashed its brains out, if she had so 
sworn to do it, as he had sv^^orn to perform that 
murder. Then she added, how practicable it was 
to lay the guilt of the deed upon the drunken 
sleepy grooms. And with the valour of her tongue 
she so chastised his sluggish resolutions, that he 
once more summoned up courage to the bloody 
business. 

So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly 
stole in the dark to the room where Duncan lay; 
and as he went, he thought he saw another dag- 



168 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 

ger in the air, with the handle towards him, and 
on tlie blade and at the point of it, drops of blood: 
but when he tried to grasp at it, it was nothing 
but air, a mere phantasm proceeding from his 
own hot and oppressed brain and the business he 
had in hand. 

Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king's 
room, whom he dispatched with one stroke of his 
dagger. Just as he had done the murder, one 
of the grooms, who slept in the chamber, laughed 
in his sleep, and the other cried ''Murder," which 
woke them both; but they said a short prayer; 
one of them said, " God bless us!" and the other 
answered "Amen;" and addressed themselves to 
sleep again. Macbeth, who stood listening to 
them, tried to say, "Amen," when the fellow 
said, "God bless us!" but, though he had most 
need of a blessing, the word stuck in his throat, 
and he could not pronounce it. 

Again he thought he heard a voice which cried, 
" Sleep no more: Macbeth doth murder sleep, 
the innocent sl^ep, that nourishes life." Still it 
cried, " Sleep no more," to all the house. "Gla- 
mis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor 
shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more." 

With such horrible imaginations Macbeth re- 
turned to his listening wife, who began to think 
he had failed of his purpose, and that the deed 
was somehow frustrated. He came in so dis- 
tracted a state, that she reproached him with his 
want of firmness, and sent him to wash his hands 
of the blood which stained them, while she took 
his dagger, with purpose to stain the cheeks of 
the grooms with blood, to make it seem their 
guilt 



MACBETH. 169 

Morning cairje, and with it the discovery of 
the»murder, which could not be concealed; and 
though Macbeth and his lady made great show 
of grief, and the proofs against the grooms (the 
dagger being produced against them and their 
faces smeared with blood) were sufficiently strong, 
yet the entire suspicion fell upon Macbeth, whose 
inducements to such a deed were so much more 
forcible than such poor silly grooms could be sup- 
posed to have; and Duncan's two sons fled. Mal- 
colm, the eldest, sought for refuge in the English 
court; and the youngest, Donalbain, made his 
escape to Ireland. 

The king's sons, who should have succeeded 
him, having thus vacated the throne, Macbeth, 
as next heir was crowned king, and thus the pre- 
diction of the weird sisters was literally accom- 
plished. 

Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen 
could not forget the prophecy of the weird sisters, 
that, though Macbeth should be king, yet not his 
children, but the children of Banquo, should be 
kings after him. The thought of this, and that 
they had defiled their hands with blood, and done 
so great crimes, only to place the posterity of 
Banquo upon the throne, so ranlded within them, 
that they determined to put to death both Banquo 
and his son, to make void the predictions of the 
Vv^eird sisters, which in their own case had been 
so remarkably brought to pass. 

For this purpose they made a great suj^er, to 
which they invited all the chief thanes; and, 
among the rest, with marks of particular respect, 
Banquo and his son Fleance were invited. The 
way by which Banquo was to pass to the palace 



170 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

at night, was beset by murderers appointed by 
Macbeth, who stabbed Banquo; but in the scuffle 
Fleance escaped. From that Fleance descended 
a race of monarchs who afterwards filled the 
Scottish throne, ending with James the sixth of 
Scotland and the first of England, under whom 
the two crowns of England and Scotland were 
united. 

At supper the queen, whose manners were in 
the highest degree affable and royal, played the 
hostess with a gracefulness and attention which 
conciliated every one present, and Macbeth dis- 
coursed freely with his thanes and nobles, saying, 
that all that was honourable in the country was 
under his roof, if he had but his good friend Ban- 
quo present, whom yet he hoped he should rather 
have to chide for neglect, than to lament for any 
mischance. Just at these words the ghost of 
Banquo, whom he had caused to be murdered, 
entered the room, and placed himself on the chair 
which Macbeth was about to occupy. Though 
Macbeth was a bold man, and one that could 
have faced the devil without trembling, at this 
horrible sight his cheeks turned white with fear, 
and he stood quite unmanned with his eyes fixed 
upon the ghost. His queen and all the nobles, 
who saw nothing, but perceived him gazing (as 
they thought) upon an empty chair, took it for a 
fit of distraction; and she reproached him, whis- 
pering that it was but the same fancy which had 
made him see the dagger in the air, when he was 
about to kill Duncan. But Macbeth continued to 
see the ghost, and gave no heed to all they could 
say, v/hile he addressed it with distracted words, 
yet so significant, that his queen, fearing the 



MACBETH. 171 

dreadful secret would be disclosed, in great haste 
dismissed the guests, excusing the infirmity of 
Macbeth as a disorder he was often troubled with. 

To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was subject. 
His queen and he had their sleeps afflicted with 
terrible dreams, and the blood of Banquo troubled 
them not more than the escape of Fleance, whom 
now they looked upon as father to a line of kings, 
who should keep their posterity out of the throne. 
With these miserable thoughts they found no 
peace, and Macbeth determined once more to 
seek out the weird sisters, and know from them 
the worst. 

He sought them in a cave upon the heath, 
where they, who knew by foresight of his com- 
ing, were engaged in preparing their dreadful 
charms, by Avhich they conjured up infernal spi- 
rits to reveal to them futurity. Their horrid in- 
gredients were toads, bats, and serpents, the eye 
of a newt, and the tongue of a dog, the leg of a 
lizard, and the wing of the night owl, the scale 
of a dragon, the tooth of a wolf, the maw of the 
ravenous salt sea shark, the mummy of a witch, 
the root of the poisonous hemlock (this to have 
effect must be digged in the dark,) the gall of a 
goat, and the liver of a Jew, with slips of the 
yew tree that roots itself in graves, and the finger 
of a dead child: all these were set on to boil in a 
great kettle, or caldron, which, as fast as it grew 
too hot, was cooled with a baboon's blood: to these 
they poured in the blood of a sow that had eaten 
her young, and they threw into the flame tlie 
grease that had sweaten from a murderer's gibbet. 
By these charms they bound the infernal spirits 
to answer their questions. 



172 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would 
have his doubts resolved by them, or by their 
masters, the spirits. He, nothing daunted by the 
dreadful ceremonies which he saw, boldly answer- 
ed, ''Where are they? let me see them." And 
they called the spirits, which were three. And 
the first arose in the likeness of an armed head, 
and he called Macbeth by name, and bid him be- 
ware of the thane of Fife: for which caution 
Macbeth thanked him: for Macbeth had enter- 
tained a jealousy of MacduiF, the thane of Fife. 

And the second spirit arose in the likeness of 
a bloody child, and he called Macbeth by name, 
and bid him have no fear, but laugh to scorn the 
power of man, for none of woman born should 
have power to hurt him: and he advised him to 
be bloody, bold, and resolute. " Then live, Mac- 
duff!" cried the king; "what need I fear of thee? 
but yet I will make assurance doubly sure. Thou 
shalt not live; that I may tell pale-hearted Fear 
it lies, and sleep in spite of thunder." 

That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the 
form of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand. 
He called Macbeth by name, and comforted him 
against conspiracies, saying, that he should never 
be vanquished, until the wood of Birnam to Dun- 
sinane Hill should come against him. " Sweet 
bodements! good!" cried Macbeth; "who can 
unfix the forest, and move it from its earth-bound 
roots? I see I shall live the usual period of man's 
life, and not be cut off by a violent death. But 
my heart throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if 
your art can tell so much, if Ban quo' s issue shall 
ever reign in this kingdom?" Here the* caldron 
sunk into the ground, and a noise ol music was 



MACBETH. 173 

heard, and eight shadows, Hke kings, passed by 
Macbeth, and Banquo last, who bore a glass which 
showed the figures of many more, and Banquo 
all bloody smiled upon Macbeth, and pointed to 
them; by which Macbeth knew, that these were 
the posterity of Banquo, who should reign after 
him in Scotland; and the witches, with a sound 
of soft music, and with dancing, making a show 
of duty, and welcome to Macbeth, vanished. And 
from this time the thoughts of Macbeth were all 
bloody and dreadful. 

The first thing he heard when he got out of the 
witches' cave, was, that Macduff, thane of Fife, 
had fled to England, to join the army which was 
forming against him under Malcolm, the eldest 
son of the late king, with intent to displace Mac- 
beth, and set Malcolm, the right heir, upon the 
throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, set upon the 
castle of Macduff, and put his wife and children, 
whom the thane had left behind, to the sword, 
and extended the slaughter to all who claimed 
the least relationship to Macduff. 

These and such-like deeds alienated the minds 
of all his chief nobility from him. Such as could, 
fled to join vdth Malcolm and Macduff, Vv^ho were 
now approaching with a powerful army which 
they had raised in England; and the rest secretly 
wished success to their arms, though for fear of 
Macbeth they could take no active part. His re 
cruits went on slowly. Every body hated the 
tyrant, nobody loved or honoured him, but all 
suspected him, and he began to envy the condi- 
tion of Duncan, whom he had murdered, who 
slept soundly in his grave, against whom treason 
had done its worst: steel nor poison, domestic 
15* 



174 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

malice nor foreign levies, could hurt him any 
longer. 

While these things were acting, the queen, 
who had been the sole partner in his wickedness, 
in whose bosom he could sometimes seek a mo- 
mentary repose from those terrible dreams which 
afflicted them both nightly, died, it is supposed 
by her own hands, unable to bear the remorse of 
guilt, and public hate; by which event he was 
left alone, without a soul to love or care for him, 
or a friend to whom he could confide his wicked 
purposes. 

He grew careless of life, and wished for death; 
but the near approach of Malcolm's army roused 
in him what remained of his ancient courage, 
and he determined to die (as he expressed it) 
"with armour on his back." Besides this, the 
hollow promises of the witches had filled him with 
false confidence, and he remembered the sayings 
of the spirits, that none of woman born was to 
hurt him, and that he was never to be vanquish- 
ed till Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane, 
which he thought could never be. So he shut 
himself up in his castle, whose impregnable 
strength was such as defied a siege: here he sul- 
lenly waited the approach of Malcolm. When, 
upon a day, there came a messenger to him, pale 
and shaking with fear, almost unable to report 
that which he had seen: for he averred, that as 
he stood upon his watch on the hill, he looked 
towards Birnam, and to his thinking the wood 
began to move! "Liar and slave," cried Mac- 
beth; "if thou speakest false, thou shalt hang 
alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. 
If thy tale be true, I care not if thou dost as much 



MACBETH. 175 

by me:" for Macbeth now began to faint In reso- 
lution, and to doubt the equivocal speeches of 
the spirits. He was not to fear, till Birnam wood 
should come to Dunsinane: and now a wood did 
move! "However," said he, "if this which he 
avouches be true, let us arm and out. There is 
no flying hence, nor staying here. I begin to be 
weary of the sun, and wish my life at an end." 
With these desperate speeches he sallied forth 
upon the besiegers, who had now come up to the 
castle. 

The strange appearance, which had given the 
messenger an idea of a wood moving, is easily 
solved. When the besieging army marched 
through the wood of Birnam, Malcolm, like a 
skilful general, instructed his soldiers to hew 
down every one a bow and bear it before him, by 
way of concealing the true numbers of his host. 
This marching of the soldiers with bows had at 
a distance the appearance which had frightened 
the messenger. Thus were the words of the 
spirit brought to pass, in a sense different from 
that in which Macbeth had understood them, and 
one great hold of his confidence was gone. 

And now a severe skirmishing took place, in 
which Macbeth, though feebly supported by those 
who called themselves his friends, but in reality 
hated the tyrant and inclined to the party of Mal- 
colm and Macduff, yet fought with the extreme 
rage of and valour, cutting to pieces all who were 
opposed to him, till he came to where Macduff 
was fighting. Seeing Macduff, and remembering 
the caution of the spirit who had counselled him 
to avoid Macdnff above all men, he would have 
turned, but Macduff, who had been seeking him 



176 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

through the whole fight, opposed his turning, and 
a fierce contest ensued; MacduiF giving him 
many foul reproaches for the murder of his wife 
and children. Macbeth, whose soul was charged 
enough with blood of that family already, would 
still have declined the combat; but Macduff still 
urged him to it, calling him tyrant, murderer, 
hell-hound, and villain. 

Then Macbeth remembered the words of the 
spirit, how none of woman born should hurt him; 
and smiling confidently he said to Macduff, "Thou 
losest thy labour, Macduff. As easily thou mayest 
impress the air with thy sword, as make me vul- 
nerable. I bear a charmed life, which must not 
yield to one of woman born." 

"Despair thy charm," said Macduff, "and let 
that lying spirit, whom thou hast served, tell thee, 
that Macduff was never born of woman, never 
as the ordinary manner of men is to be born, but 
was untimely taken from his mother." 

"Accursed be the tongue which tells me so," 
said the trembling Macbeth, who felt his last hold 
of confidence give way; "and let never man in 
future believe the lying equivocations of witches 
and juggling spirits, who deceive us in words 
Avhich have double senses, and while they keep 
their promise literally, disappoint our hopes with 
a different meaning. I will not fight with thee." 

-"Then live!" said the scornful Macduff; "we 
will have a show of thee, as men show monsters, 
and a painted board, on which shall be written, 
* Here men may see the tyrant!' '' 

" Never," said Macbeth, whose courage return- 
ed with despair; "I will not live to kiss the 
ground before young Malcolm's feet, and to be 



MACBETH. 177 

baited with the curses of the rabble. Though 
Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, and thou 
opposed to me who wast never bom of woman, 
yet wiU I tiy the last." With these frantic words 
he threw himself upon Macduff, who after a se- 
vere struggle, in the end overcame him, and cut- 
ting off his head, made a present of it to the 
young and lawful king, Malcolm; who took upon 
him the government which, by the machinations 
of the usurper, he had so long been deprived of, 
and ascended the throne of Duncan the Meek 
amid the acclamations of the nobles and the 
people. 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 

Bertram, count of Rosilion, had newly come 
to his title and estate, by the death of his father. 
The king of France loved the father of Bertram, 
and when he heard of his death, he sent for his 
son to come immediately to his royal court in 
Paris; intending, for the friendship he bore the 
late count, to grace young Bertram with his espe- 
cial favour and protection. 

Bertram was living with his mother, the widow- 
ed countess, when Lafeu, an old lord of the 
French court, came to conduct Bertram to the 
king. The king of France was an absolute mo- 
narch, and the invitation to court was in the form 
of a royal mandate, or positive command, which 
no subject, of what high dignity soever, might 
disobey; therefore though the countess, in parting 
with this dear son, seemed a second time to bury 
her husband, whose loss she had so lately mourn- 
ed, yet she dared not to keep him a single day, 
but gave instant orders for his departure. La- 
feu, who came to fetch him, tried to comfort the 
countess for the loss of her late lord, and her son's 
sudden absence; and he said, in a courtier's flat- 
tering manner, tnat the king was so kind a prince, 
she would find in his majesty a husband, and that 
he would be a father to her son: meaning only, 
that the good king would befriend the fortunes of 
Bertram. Lafeu told the countess that the king 
had fallen into a sad malady, which was pro- 
nounced by his physicians to be incurable. The 



all's well that ends well. 179 

lady expressed great sorrow on hearing this ac- 
count of the king's ill health, and said, she wished 
the father of Helena (a young gentlewoman who 
was present in attendance upon her) were living, 
for that she doubted not he could have cured his 
majesty of his disease. And she told Lafeu some- 
thing of the history of Helena, saying she was 
the only daughter of the famous physician Ge- 
rard de Narbon, and that he had recommended 
his daughter to her care when he was dying, so 
that since his death she had taken Helena under 
her protection; then the countess praised the vir- 
tuous disposition and excellent qualities of Helena, 
saying she inherited these virtues from her wor- 
thy father. While she was speaking, Helena 
wept in sad and mournful silence, v^^hich made 
the countess gently reprove her for too much 
grieving for her father's death. 

Bertram, now bade his mother farewell. The 
countess parted with this dear son with tears and 
many blessings, and commended him to the care 
of Lafeu, saying, " Good, m}^ lord, advise him, 
for he is an unseasoned courtier." 

Bertram's last words were spoken to Helena, 
but they were words of mere civility, wishing 
her happiness: and he concluded his short fare- 
well to her with saying, " Be comfortable to my 
mother, your mistress, and make much of her." 

Helena had long loved Beiiram, and when she 
wept in sad and mournful silence, the tears she 
shed Vv^ere not for Gerard de Narbon. Helena 
loved her father, but in the present feeling of a 
deeper love, the object of which she was about 
to lose, she had forgotten the very form and fea- 



180 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

tures of her dead father, her imagination pre- 
senting no image to her mind but Bertram's. 

Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always 
remembered that he was the count of Rossilion, 
descended from the most ancient family in France, 
She of humble birth. Her parents of no note at 
all. His ancestors all noble. And therefore she 
looked up to the highborn Bertram as to her mas- 
ter and to her dear lord, and dared not form any 
wish but to live his servant, and so living to die 
his vassal. So great the distance seemed to her 
between his height of dignity and her lowly for- 
tunes, that she would say, " It were all one that 
I should love a bright peculiar star, and think to 
wed it, Bertram is so far above me." 

Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears, 
and her heart with sorrow; for though she loved 
without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort to her 
to see him every hour, and Helena would sit and 
look upon his dark eye, his arched brow, and the 
curls of his fine hair, till she seemed to draw his 
portrait on the tablet of her heart, that heart too 
capable of retaining the memory of every line 
in the features of that loved face. 

Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other 
portion than some prescriptions of rare and well 
proved virtue, which by deep study and long ex- 
perience in medicine, he had collected as sove- 
reign and almost infallible remedies. Among the 
rest, there was one set down as an approved me- 
dicine for the disease under which Lafeu said the 
king at that time languished; and when Helena 
heard of the king's complaint, she who till now 
had been so humble and so hopeless, formed an 
ambitious project in her mind to go herself to 



all's well that ends well. 181 

Paris, and undertake the cure of the kin^. But 
though Helena was the possessor of this choice 
prescription, it was unhkely, as the king as well 
as his physicians were of opinion that his disease 
was incurable, that they would give credit to a 
poor unlearned virgin, if she should offer to per- 
form a cure. The firm hopes that Helena had of 
succeeding, if she might be permitted to make 
the trial, seemed more than even her father's skill 
warranted, though he was the most famous phy- 
sician of his time; for she felt a strong faith that 
this good medicine was sanctified by all the lucki- 
est stars in heaven, to be the legacy that should 
advance her fortune, even to the high dignity of 
being count Rossilion's wife. 

Bertram had not been long gone, when the 
countess was informed by her steward, that he 
had overheard Helena talking to herself, and that 
he understood from some words she uttered, she 
was in love with Bertram, and had thought of 
following him to Paris. The countess dismissed 
the steward with thanks, and desired him to tell 
Helena she wished to speak with her. What she 
had just heard of Helena brought the remem- 
brance of days long past into the mind of the 
countess; those days probably when her love for 
Bertram's father first began; and she said to her- 
self, " Even so it was with me when I was young. 
Love is a thorn that belongs to the rose of youth; 
for in the season of youth, if ever we are nature's 
children, these faults are ours, though then we 
think not they are faults." While the countess 
was thus meditating on the loving errors of her 
own youth, Helena entered, and she said to her, 
"Helena, you know I am a mother to you." 
16 



18'2 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Helena replied, ''You are my honourable mis 
tress." "You are my daughter," said the countess 
again: " I say I am your mother. Why do you 
start and look pale at my words?" With looks of 
alarm and confused thoughts, fearing the countess 
suspected her love, Helena still replied, "Pardon 
me, madam, you are not my mother; the count 
Rossilion cannot be my brother, nor I your daugh- 
ter." "Yet, Helena," said the countess, "you 
might be my daughter-in-law; and I am afraid 
that is what you mean to be, the words mother 
and daughter so disturb you. Helena, do you 
love my son?" "Good madam, pardon me," said 
the affrighted Helena. Again the countess re- 
peated her question, "Do you love my son?" 
"Do not you love him, madam?" said Helena. 
The countess replied, "Give me not this evasive 
answer, Helena. Come, come, disclose the state 
of your affections, for your love has to the fall 
appeared." Helena on her knees now owned her 
love, and with shame and terror implored the 
pardon of her noble misti-ess; and with words ex- 
pi'essive of the sense she had of the inequality 
between their fortunes, she protested Bertram did 
not know she loved him, comparing her humble 
unaspiring love to a poor Indian, who adores the 
sun, that looks upon his worshipper, but knows 
of him no more. The countess asked Helena if 
she had not lately an intent to go to Paris? He- 
lena owned the design she had formed in her 
mind, when she heard Lafeu speak of the king's 
illness. " This was your motive for wishing to 
go to Paris," said the countess, "was it? Speak 
truly." Helena honestly answered, "My lord 
your son made me to think of this; else Paris, and 



all's well that ends well. 183 

ihe medicine, and the king, had from the conver- 
sation of my thoughts been absent then." The 
countess heard the whole of this confession 
without saying a word either of approval or of 
blame, but she strictly questioned Helena as to 
the probability of the medicine being useful to 
the king. She found that it was the most prized 
by Gerard de Narbon of all he possessed, and 
that he had given it to his daughter on his 
death-bed; and remembering the solemn promise 
she had made at that awful hour in regard to 
this young maid, whose destiny, and the life 
of the king himself, seemed to depend on the 
execution of a project (which though conceived 
by the fond suggestions of a loving maiden's 
thouo;hts, the countess knew not but it mig-ht be 
the unseen workings of Providence to bring to 
pass the recovery of the king, and to lay the 
foundation of the future fortunes of Gerard de 
Narbon' s daughter,) free leave she gave to Helena 
to pursue her own way, and generously furnished 
her with ample means and suitable attendants; 
and Helena set out for Paris with the blessings 
of the countess, and her kindest wishes for her 
success. 

Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assistance 
of her friend the old Lafeu, she obtained an au- 
dience of the king. She had still many difficul- 
ties to encounter, for the king was not easily pre- 
vailed on to try the medicine offered him by this 
fair young doctor. But she told him she was 
Gerard de Narbon' s daughter (with whose fame 
the king was well acquainted,) and she offered 
the precious medicine as the darling treasure 
which contained the essence of all her father's 



184 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

long experience and skill, and she boldly engaged 
to forfeit her life, if it failed to restore his ma- 
jesty to perfect health in the space of two days. 
The king at length consented to try it, and in two 
days' time Helena was to lose her life if the king 
did not recover; but if she succeeded, he pro- 
mised to give her the choice of any man through- 
out all France (the princes only excepted) whom 
she could like for a husband; the choice of a 
husband being the fee Helena demanded, if she 
cured the kmg of his disease. 

Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she 
conceived of the efficacy of her father's medi- 
cine. Before two days were at an end, the king 
was restored to perfect health, and he assembled 
all the young noblemen of his court together, in 
order to confer the promised reward of a husband 
upon his fair physician; and he desired Helena 
to look round on this youthful parcel of noble 
bachelors, and choose her husband. Helena was 
not slow to make her choice, for among these 
young lords she saw the count Rossilion, and 
turning to Bertram, she said, "This is the man. 
I dare not say, my lord, I take you, but 1 give 
me and my service ever whilst I live, into your 
guiding power." " Why then," said the king, 
"young Bertram, take her; she is your wife." 
Bertram did not hesitate to declare his dislike to 
this present of the king's of the self-offered He 
lena, who, he said, was a poor physician's daugh- 
ter, bred at his father's charge, and now living a 
dependant on his mother's bounty. Helena heard 
him speak these words of rejection and of scorn, 
and she said to the king, "That you are well, my 
lord, I am glad. Let the rest go." But the king 



all's well that ends well. 185 

would not suffer his royal command to be so 
slighted; for the power of bestowing their nobks 
in marriage was one of the many privileges of 
the kings of France; and that same day Bertram 
was married to Helena, a forced and uneasy mar- 
riage to Bertram, and of no promising hope to the 
poor lady, who, though she gained the noble hus- 
band she had hazarded her life to obtain, seemed 
to have won but a splendid blank, her husband's 
love not being a gift in the power of the king of 
France to bestow. 

Helena was no sooner married, than she was 
desired by Bertram to apply to the king for him 
for leave of absence from court; and when she 
brought him the king's permission for his depar- 
ture, Bertram told her that as he was not prepared 
for this sudden marriage, it had much unsettled 
him, and therefore she must not wonder at the 
course he should pursue. If Helena wondered 
not, she grieved when she found it was his inten- 
tion to leave her. He ordered her to go home to 
his mother. When Helena heard this unkind 
command, she replied, "Sir, I can nothing say 
to this, but that I am your most obedient servant, 
and shall ever with true observance seek to eke 
out that desert, wherein my homely stars have 
failed to equal my great fortunes." But this hum- 
ble speech of Helena's did not at all move the 
haughty Bertram to pity his gentle wife, and he 
parted from her v/ithout even the common civility 
of a kind farewell. 

Back to the countess then Helena returned. 
She had accomplished the purport of her journey, 
she had preserved the life of the king, and she 
had wedded her heart's dear lord, the count Ros- 



186 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

silion; but she returned back a dejected lady to her 
noble mother-in-law, and as soon as she entered 
the house, she received a letter from Bertram 
which almost broke her heart. 

The good countess received her with a cordial 
welcome, as if she had been her son's own choice, 
and a lady of a high degree, and she spoke kind 
words to comfort her for the unkind neglect of 
Bertram in sending his wife home on her bridal 
day alone. But this gracious reception failed to 
cheer the sad mind of Helena, and she said, 
"Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone." She 
then read these words out of Bertram's letter: 
When you can get the ring from my finger which 
never shall come off, then call me husband, hut in 
such a Then I write a JVever. " This is a dreadful 
sentence!" said Helena. The countess begged 
her to have patience, and. said, now Bertram was 
gone, she should be her child, and that she de- 
served a lord that twenty such rude boys as Ber- 
tram might tend upon, and hourly call her mis- 
tress. But in vain by respectful condescension 
and kind flattery this matchless mother tried to 
soothe the sorrows of her daughter-in-law. Helena 
still kept her eyes fixed upon the letter, and cried 
out in an agony of grief, Till I have no wife, I 
have nothing in France. The countess asked her 
if she found those words in the letter? ''Yes, 
madam," was all poor Helena could answer. 

The next morning Helena was missing. She 
left a letter to be delivered to the countess after 
she was gone, to acquaint her with the reason of 
her sudden absence: in this letter she informed 
her, that she was so much grieved at having 
driven Bertram from his native co\mtry and his 



all's well that ends well. 187 

home, that to atone for her offence, she had un- 
dertaken a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Jaques 
le Grand, and concluded v/ith requesting the 
countess to inform her son, that the wife he so 
hated had left his house for ever. 

Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence, 
and there became an officer in the duke of Flo- 
rence's army, and after a successful war, in which 
he distinguished himself by many brave actions, 
Bertram received letters from his mother, con- 
tainmg the acceptable tidings that Helena would 
no more disturb him; and he was preparing to 
return home, when Helena herself, clad in her 
pilgrim's weeds, arrived at the city of Florence. 

Florence was a city through which the pilgrims 
used to pass on their way to St. Jaques le Grand; 
and when Helena arrived at this city, she heard 
that a hospitable widow dwelt there, who used to 
receive into her house the female pilgrims that 
were going to visit the shrine of that saint, giving 
them lodging and kind entertainment. To this 
good lady therefore Helena went, and the widow 
gave her a courteous welcome, and invited her to 
see whatever was curious in that famous city, and 
told her that if she would like to see the duke's 
army, she would take her where she might have 
a full view of it. "And you will see a country- 
man of yours," said the widow; "his name is 
count Rossilion, who has done worthy service in 
the duke's wars." Helena wanted no second in- 
vitation, when she found Bertram was to make a 
part of the show. She accompanied her hostess; 
and a sad and mournful pleasure it was to her to 
look once more upon her dear husband's face. 
"Is he not a handsome man?" said the widow. 



— ^ 



188 TALES FROM SHAKSPEAilE. 

"I like him well," replied Helena with great 
truth. All the way they walked, the talkative 
widow's discourse was all of Bertram: she told 
Helena the story of Bertram's marriage, and how 
he had deserted the poor lady his wife, and en- 
tered into the duke's army to avoid living with 
her. To this account of her own misfortunes 
Helena patiently listened, and when it was end- 
ed, the history of Bertram was not yet done, for 
then the widow began another tale, every word 
of which sunk deep into the mind of Helena: 
for the story she now told, was of Bertram's love 
for her daughter. 

Though Bertram did not like the marriage 
forced on him by the king, it seems he was not 
insensible to love, for since he had been stationed 
with the army at Florence, he had fallen in love 
with Diana, a fair young gentlewoman, the daugh- 
ter of this widow who was Helena's hostess; and 
every night, with music of aU sorts, and songs 
composed in praise of Diana's beauty, he would 
come under her window, and solicit her love: 
and all his suit to her was, that she would permit 
him to visit her by stealth after the family were 
retired to rest; but Diana would by no means be 
persuaded to grant this improper request, nor give 
any encouragement to his suit, knowing him to 
be a married man; for Diana had been brought 
up under the counsels of a prudent mother, who, 
though she was now in reduced circumstances, 
was well-born, and descended from the noble 
family of the Capulets. 

All th" s the good lady related to Helena, highly 
praising the virtuous principles of her discreet 
daughter, which she said were entirely owing to 



all's well that ends well. 189 

the excellent education and good advice she had 
given her; and she farther said, that Bertram had 
been particularly importunate with Diana to ad- 
mit him to the visit he so much desired that night, 
because he was going to leave Florence early the 
next morning. 

Though it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram's 
love for the widow's daughter, yet from this story 
the ardent mind of Helena conceived a project 
(nothing discouraged at the ill success of her for- 
mer one) to recover her truant lord. She dis- 
closed to the widow, that she was Helena, the 
deserted wife of Bertram, and requested that her 
kind hostess and her daughter would suffer this 
visit from Bertram to take place, and allow her to 
pass herself upon Bertram for Diana; telling them, 
her chief motive for desiring to have this secret 
meeting with her husband, was to get a ring from 
him, which he had said, if ever she was in posses- 
sion of, he would acknowledge her as his wife. 

The widow and her daughter promised to assist 
her in this affair, partly moved by pity for this 
unhappy forsaken wife, and partly won over to 
her interest by the promises of reward which 
Helena made them, giving them a purse of money 
in earnest of her future favour. In the course of 
that day Helena caused information to be sent to 
Bertram that she was dead; hoping that when he 
thought himself free to make a second choice by 
the news of her d 3ath, he would offer marriage 
to her in her feigned character of Diana. And 
if she could obtain the ring and this promise too, 
she doubted not she should make some future 
good come of it. 

In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram was 



190 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

admitted into Diana's chamber, and Helena was 
there ready to receive him. The flattering com- 
phments and love-discourse he addressed to He- 
lena were precious sounds to her, though she 
knew they were meant for Diana; and Bertram 
was so well pleased with her, that he made her 
a solemn promise to be her husband, and to love 
her for ever; which she hoped would be prophetic 
of a real affection, when he should know it was 
his own wife, the despised Helena, whose con- 
versation had so delighted him. 

Bertram never knew how sensible a lady He- 
lena was, else perhaps he would not have been so 
regardless of her; and seeing her every day, he 
had entirely overlooked her beauty; a face we are 
accustomed to see constantly, losing the effect 
which is caused by the first sight either of beauty 
or of plainness; and of her understanding it was 
impossible he should judge, because she felt such 
reverence, mixed with her love for him, that she 
was always silent in his presence; but now that 
her future fate, and the happy ending of all her 
love-projects, seemed to depend on her leaving a 
favourable impression on the mind of Bertram 
from this night's interview, she exerted all her 
wit to please him; and the simple graces of her 
lively conversation and the endearing sweetness 
of her manners so charmed Bertram, that he 
vowed she should be his wile. Helena begged 
the ring from off his finger as a token of his re- 
gard, and he gave it to her; and in return for this 
ring, which it was of such importance to her to 
possess, she gave him another ring, which was one 
the king had made her a present of. Before it 
was light in the morning, she sent Bertram away; 



all's well that ends well. 191 

and he immediately set. out on his journey to- 
wards his mother's house. 

Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana to 
accompany her to Paris, their farther assistance 
being necessary to the full accomplishment of the 
plan she had formed. When they arrived there, 
they found the king was gone upon a visit to the 
countess of Rossilion, and Helena followed the 
king with all the speed she could make. 

The king was still in perfect health, and his 
gratitude to her who had been the means of his 
recovery was so lively in his mind, that the mo- 
ment he saw the countess of Rossilion, he began 
to talk of Helena, caUing her a precious jewel 
that was lost by the folly of her son; but seeing 
the subject distressed the countess, who sincerely 
lamented the death of Helena, he said, " My 
good lady, I have forgiven and forgotten all." 
But the good-natured old Lafeu, who was present, 
and could not bear that the memory of his fa- 
vourite Helena should be so lightly passed over, 
said, ''This I must say, the young lord did great 
offence to his majesty, his mother, and his lady; 
but to himself he did the greatest wrong of all, 
for he has lost a wife whose beauty astonished all 
eyes, whose words took all ears captive, whose 
deep perfection made all hearts wish to serve 
lier." The king said, '' Praising what is lost makes 
the remembrance dear. WeR — call him hither;" 
meaning Bertram, who now presented himself 
before the king: and, on his expressing deep sor- 
row for the injuries he had done to Helena, the 
king, for his dead father's and his admirable mo- 
ther's sake, pardoned him and restored him once 
more to his favour But the gracious countenance 



192 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

of the king was soon changed towards him, for 
he perceived that Bertram wore the very ring 
upon his finger which he had given to Helena-, 
and he well remembered that Helena had called 
all the saints in heaven to witness she would 
never part with that ring, unless she sent it to the 
king himself upon some great disaster befalling 
her; a»d Bertram, on the king's questioning 
nim how he came by the ring, told an improbable 
story of a lady throwing it to him out of a vin- 
dow, and denied ever having seen Helena since 
the day of their marriage. The king knowing 
Bertram's dislike to his wife, feared' he had de- 
stroyed her; and he ordered his guards to seize 
Bertram, saying, " I am wrapped in dismal think- 
ing, for I fear the life of Helena was foully 
snatched." At this moment Diana and her mo- 
ther entered, and presented a petition to the king, 
wherein they begged his majesty to exert his 
royal power to compel Bertram to marry Diana, 
he having made her a solemn promise of mar- 
riage. Bertram, fearing the king's anger, denied 
he had made any such promise; and then Diana 
produced the ring (which Helena had put into 
her hands) to confirm the truth of her words; 
and she said that she had given Bertram the ring 
he then wore, in exchange for that, at the time 
he vowed to marry her. On hearing this, the 
king ordered the guards to seize her also; and 
her account of the ring differing from Bertram's, 
the king's suspicions were confirmed; and he 
said, if they did not confess how they came by 
this ring of Helena's, they should be both put to 
death. Diana requested her mother might be 
permitted to fetch the jeweller of whom she 



all's well that ends well. 193 

bought the ring, v/hich being granted, the widow 
went out, and presently returned leading in He- 
lena herself. 

The good countess, who in silent grief had be- 
held her son's danger, and had even dreaded that 
the suspicion of his having destroyed his wife 
might possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, 
whom she loved with even a maternal affection, 
was still Uving, felt a delight she was hardly able 
to support; and the king, scarce beheving for joy 
that it was Helena, said, " Is this indeed the wife 
of Bertram that I see?" Helena, feehng herself 
yet an unacknowledged wife, repUed, "Wo, my 
good lord, it is but the shadow of a wife you see, 
?he name and not the thing." Bertram cried out, 
"Both, both! O pardon!" "0 my lord," said 
Helena, "when I personated this fair rnaid, I 
found you wondrous kind; and look, here is your 
letter!" reading to him in a joyful ton,e those 
words which she had once repeated so sorrow- 
fully, When from nmj finger you can get this ring — 
"This is done, it was to me you gave the ring. 
Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?" 
Bertram replied, "If you can make it plain that 
you were the lady I talked with that night,^ I will 
love you dearly, ever, ever dearly." This was 
no difficult task, for the widov/ and Diana came 
with Helena purposely to prove this fact; and 
the king was so well pleased Vv^ith Diana, for the 
friendly assistance she had rendered the dear 
lady he so truly valued for the service she had 
done him, that he promised her also a noble 
husband: Helena's history giving him a hint, that 
it was a suitable reward for kings to bestow upon 
fair ladies when they perform notable services. 
17 



194 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Thus Helena at last found, that her father's 
legacy was indeed sanctified by the luckiest stars 
in heaven; for she was now the beloved wife of 
her dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law of her 
noble mistress, and herself the countess of Ros- 
silici. 




i 



TAMiI¥C-r TEE SHREWo 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 

Katherine, the Shrew, was the eldest daugh- 
ter of Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. She 
was a lady of such an ungovernable spirit and 
fiery temper, such a loud-tongued scold, that she 
was known in Padua by no other name than Ka- 
therine the Shrew. It seemed very unhkely, 
indeed impossible that any gentleman would ever 
be found who would venture to marry this lady, 
and therefore Baptista was much blamed for de- 
ferring his consent to many excellent offers that 
were made to her gentle sister Bianca, putting 
off all Bianca's suitors with this excuse, that v/hen 
the eldest sister was fairly off his hands, they 
should have free leave to address young Bianca. 

It happened however, that a gentleman, named 
Petruchio, came to Padua, purposely to look out 
for a wife, who, nothing discouraged by these 
reports of Katherine' s temper, and hearing she 
was rich and handsome, resolved upon marrying 
this famous termagant, and taming her into a 
meek and manageable wife. And truly none was 
so fit to set about this herculean labour as Petru- 
chio, whose spirit was as high as Katherine' s, 
and he was a witty and most happy-tempered 
humorist, and withal so wise, and of such a true 
judgment, that he well knew how to feign a pas- 
sionate and furious deportment, when his spirits 
were so calm that himself could have laughed 
merrily at his own angry feigning, for his natural 
temper was careless and easy; the boisterous airs 
he assumed when he became the husband of 



19G TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Katherine being but in sport, but more properly 
speaking, affected by his excellent discernment, 
as the only means to overcome in her own way 
the passionate ways of the furious Katherine. 

A courting then Petruchio went to Katherine 
the Shrew, and first of all he applied to Baptista, 
her father, for leave to woo his gentle daughter 
Katherine, as Petruchio called her, saying archly, 
that having heard of her bashful modesty and 
mild behaviour, he had come from Verona to 
sohcit her love. Her father, though he wished 
her married, was forced to confess Katherine 
would ill answer this character, it being soon ap- 
parent of what manner of gentleness she was 
composed, for her music-master rushed into the 
room to complain that the gentle Katherine, his 
pupil, had broken his head with her lute, for pre- 
suming to find fault with her performance; which, 
when Petruchio heard, he said, "It is a brave 
wench; I love her more than ever, and long to 
have some chat with her;" and hurrying the old 
gentleman for a positive answer, he said, ''My 
business is in haste, signior Baptista, I cannot 
come every day to sroo. You knew my father. 
Pie is dead, and has left me heir to all his lands 
and goods. Then tell me, if I get your daugh- 
ter's love, what dowry you wiU give with her." 
Baptista thought his manner was somcAvhat blunt 
for a lover; but being glad to get Katherine mar- 
ried, he answered that he would give her twenty 
thousand crowns for her dowry, and half his es- 
tate at his death: so this odd match was quickly 
agreed on, and Baptista went to apprize his shrew- 
ish daughter of her lover's addresses, and sent 
her into Petruchio to listen to his suit. 



TAMING OF THE SHREW. 197 

In the mean time Petruchio was settling with 
himself the mode of courtship ae should pursue: 
and he said, "I will woo hei with som.e spirit 
when she comes. If she rails at me, why then 
I will tell her she sings as sweetly as a nightin- 
gale; and if she frowns, I will say she looks as 
clear as roses newly washed with dew. If she 
will not speak a word, I will praise the eloquence 
of her language; and if she bids me leave her, I 
will give her thanks as if she bid me stay with 
her a week." Now the stately Katlierine entered, 
and Petruchio first addressed her with "Good 
morrow, Kate, for that is your name I hear." 
Katherine, not liking this plain salutation, said 
disdainfully, "They caU me Katherine who do 
speak to me." "You lie," repHed the lover; 
"for you are called plain Kate, and bonny Kate, 
and sometimes Kate the Shrew; but, Kate, you 
are the prettiest Kate in Christendom, and there- 
fore Kate, hearing your mildness praised in every 
town, I am come to woo you for my wife." 

A strange courtship they made of it. She in 
loud and angry terms showing him how justly 
she had gained the name of Shrew, while he still 
praised her sweet and courteous words, till at 
length, hearing her father commg, he said (in- 
tending to- make as quick a wooing as possible,) 
" Sweet Katherine, let us set this idle chat aside, 
for your father has consented that you shall be 
my wife, your dowry is agreed on, and whether 
you will or no, I will marry you." 

And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told him 

his daughter had received him kindly, and that 

she had promised to be married the next Sunday. 

This Katherine denied, saying she would rather 

17* 



198 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

see him hanged on Sunday, atid reproached her 
father for wishing to wed her to such a mad-cap 
ruffian as Petruchio. Petruchio desired her fa- 
ther not to regard her angry words, for they had 
agreed she should seem reluctant before him, but 
that when they v/ere alone he had found her very 
fond and loving; and he said to her, " Give me 
your hand, Kate; I will go to Venice to buy you 
fine apparel against our wedding-day. Provide 
the feast, father, and bid the wedding guests. I 
will be sure to bring rings, fine array, and rich 
clothes, that my Katherine may be fine; and kiss 
me, Kate, for we will be married on Sunday." 

On the Sunday all the wedding guests were 
assembled, but they waited loDg before Petruchio 
came, and Katherine wept for vexation to think 
that Petruchio. had only been making a jest of 
her. At last, however, he appeared, but he 
brought none of the bridal finery he had promised 
Katherine, nor was he dressed himself Hke a 
bride.groom, but in strange disordered attire, as 
if he meant to make a sport of the serious busi- 
ness he came about; and his servant and the very 
horses on which they rode were in like manner 
in m.ean and fantastic fashion habited. 

Petruchio could not be persuaded to change 
his dress; he said, Katherine was to be married 
to him, and not to his clothes; and finding it was 
in vain to argue witli him, to the church they 
went, he still behaving in the same mad v^ay, for 
when the priest asked Petruchio if Katherine 
should be his wife, he swore so loud that she 
should, that all amazed the priest let fall his book, 
as he stooped to take it up, this mad-brained 
bridegroom gave him such a cuff', that down feU 



TAMING OF THE SHREW. 199 

the priest and his book again. And all the while 
they were being married he stamped and swore 
so, that the high-spirited Katherine trembled and 
shook with fear. After the ceremony was over, 
while they were yet in the church, he called for 
wine, and drank a loud health to the company, 
and threw a sop which was at the bottom of the 
glass full in the sexton's face, giving no other 
reason for this strange act, than that the sexton's 
beard grew thin and hungerly, and seemed to 
ask the sop as he was drinking. Never sure was 
there such a mad marriage; but Petruchio did but 
put this wildness on, the better to succeed in the 
plot he had formed to tame his shrewish wife. 

B.aptista had provided a sumptuous marriage 
feast, but when they returned from church, Pe- 
.truchio, taking hold of Katherine, declared his 
intention of carrying hi^ wife home instantly; 
and no remonstrance of his father-in-law, or an- 
gry words of the enraged Katherine, could make 
him change his purpose; he claimed a husband's 
right to dispose of his wife as he pleased, and 
away he hurried Katherine off; he seeming so 
daring and resolute that no one dared attempt to 
stop him. 

Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable 
horse, lean and lank, which he had picked out 
for the purpose, and himself and servant no better 
mounted; they journeyed on through rough and 
miry ways, and ever when this horse of Kathe- 
rines stumbled, he would storm and swear at the 
poor jaded beast, who could scarce crawl under 
his burthen, as if he had been the most passionate 
man alive. 

At length; after a weary journey, during which 



200 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Katheiine had heard nothing but the wild ravings 
of Petruchio at the servant and the horses, they 
arrived at his house. Petruchio welcomed her 
kindly to her home, but he resolved she should 
Jtiave neither rest nor food that night. The tables 
were spread, and supper soon served; but Pe- 
truchio, pretending to find fault with every dish, 
threw the meat about the floor, and ordered the 
servants to remove it away, and all this he did, 
as he said, in love for his Katherine. that she 
might not eat meat that was not well dressed. 
A ad when Katherine weary and supperless retired 
to rest, he found the same fault with the bed, 
throwing the pillows and bed-clothes about the 
room, so that she was forced to sit down in a 
chair, where if she chanced to drop asleep, she 
was presently awakened by the loud voice of her 
husband, storming at the servants for the ill 
making of his wife's bridal-bed- 

The next day Petruchio pursued the same 
course, still speaking kind words to Katherine, 
but when she attempted to eat, finding fault with 
every thing that was set before her, throwing the 
breakfast on the floor as he had done the supper; 
and Katherine, the haughty Katherine, was fain 
to beg the servants would bring her secretly a 
morsel of food, but they being instructed by Pe- 
truchio, replied, they dared not give her any 
thing unknown to their master. "Ah," said she, 
" did he marry me to famish me? Beggars that 
come to my father's door have food given them. 
But I, who never knew what it was to entreat for 
any thing, am starved for Vv^ant of food, giddy for 
want of sleep, with oaths kept waking, and with 
brawling fed, and that which vexes me more than 



TAMING OF THE SHREW. 201 

all, he does it under the name of perfect love, 
pretending that if I sleep or eat, it were present 
death to me." Here her sohloquy was interrupt- 
ed by the entrace of Petruchio: he, not meaning 
she should be quite starved, had brought her a 
small portion of meat, and he said to her, "How 
fares my sweet Kate? Here, love, you see how 
diligent I am, I have dressed your meat myself. 
I am sure this kindness merits thanks. What not 
a word? Nay, then you love not the meat, and 
all the pains I have taken is to no purpose." He 
then ordered the servant to take the dish away. 
Extreme hunger, which had abated the pride of 
Katherine, made her say, though angered to the 
heart, "Pprayyou let it stand." But this was 
not all Petruchio intended to bring her to, and he 
replied, "The poorest service is repaid with 
thanks, and so shall mine before you touch the 
meat." On this Katherine brought out a reluc- 
tant "I thank you, sir." And now he suffered 
her to make a slender meal, saying, "Much good 
may it do your gentle heart, Kate; eat apace! 
And now, my honey love, we will return to your 
father's house, and revel it as bravely as the best, 
with silken coats and caps and golden rings, with 
ruffs and scarfs and fans and double change of 
finery;" and to make her beheve he really in- 
tended to give her these gay things, he called in 
a tailor and a haberbasher, who brought some new 
clothes he had ordered for her, and then giving 
her plate to the servant to take away, before she 
had half satisfied her hunger, he said, " What, 
have you dined?" The haberdasher presented a 
cap, saying, "Here is the cap your worship be- 
spoke;" on which Petruchio began to stonri afresh. 



202 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

saying, the cap was moulded in a porringer, and 
that it was no bigger than a cockle or walnut 
shell, desiring the haberdasher to take it away 
and make a bigger. Katherine said, " I will have 
this; all gentlewomen wear such caps as these." 
" When you are gentle," rephed Petruchio, "you 
shall have one too, and not till then." The meat 
Katherine had eaten had a little revived her fallen 
spirits, and she said, ' ' Why, sir, I trust I may 
have leave to speak, and speak I will, I am no 
child, no babe; your betters have endured to hear 
me say my mind; and if you cannot, you had 
better stop your ears." Petruchio would not hear 
these angry words, for he had happily discovered 
a better way of managing his wife thaif keeping 
up a jangling argument with her; therefore his 
answer was, "Why, you say true, it is a paltry 
cap, and I love you for not liking it." "Love 
me, or love me not," said Katherine, "I like the 
cap, and I will have this cap or none." You say 
you wish to see the gown," said Petruchio, still 
affecting to misunderstand her. The tailor then 
came forward, and showed her a fine gown he 
had made for her. Petruchio, whose intent was 
that she should have neither cap nor gown, found 
as much fault with that. "0 mercy. Heaven!" 
said he, "what stuff is here! What, do you call 
this a sleeve? it is like a demi-cannon, carved up 
and down like an apple tart." The tailor said, 
"You bid me make it according to the fashion of 
the times;" and Katherine said, she never saw a 
better fashioned gown. This was enough for Pe- 
truchio, and privately desiring these people might 
be paid for their goods, and excuses made to 
them for the seemingly strange treatment he be- 



J 



TAMING OF THE SHREW. 203 

stowed upon them, he Vv^ith fierce words and furi- 
ous gestures drove the tailor ana the haberdasher 
out of the room: and then, turning to Katherine, 
he said, "Well, come, my Kate, we will go to 
your father's even in these mean garm.ents we 
now wear." And then he ordered his horses, 
affirming they should reach Baptista's house by 
dinner-time, for that it was but seven o'clock. 
Now it was not early morning, but the very mid- 
dle of the day, when he spoke this; therefore 
Katherine ventured to say, though modestly, be- 
ing almost overcome by the vehemence of his 
manner, "I dare assure you, sir, it is two o'clock, 
and will be supper-time before we get there." 
But Petruchio meant that she should be so com- 
pletely subdued, that she should assent to every 
thing he said, before he carried her to her father; 
and therefore, as if he were lord even of the sun, 
and could command the hours, he said it should 
be what time he pleased to have it, before he set 
forward; 'Tor," said he, "whatever I say or do, 
you still are crossing it. I will not go to-day, and 
when I go, it shall be what o'clock I say it is." 
Another day Katherine was forced to practise her 
newly-found obedience, and not till he had brought 
her proud spirit to such a perfect subjection, that 
she dared not remember there was such a word 
as contradiction, would Petruchio allow her to go 
to her father's house; and even while they were 
upon their journey thither, she was in danger of 
being turned back again, only because she hap- 
pened to hint it was the sun, when he affirmed 
the moon shone brightly at noonday. "Now, by 
my mother's son," said he, " and that is myself, 
it shall be the moon, or stars, or what I list, be- 



S04 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

fore I journey to your father's house." He then 
made as if he were going back again; but Kathe- 
rine, no longer Katherine the Shrew, but the 
obedient wife, said, "Let us go forward, I pray, 
now we have come so far, and it shall be the sun, 
or moon, or what you please, and if you please 
to call it a rush candle henceforth, I vow it shall 
be so for me." This he was resolved to prove, 
therefore he said, again, " I say, it is the moon." 
'*I know it is the moon," replied Katherine. 
"You lie, it is the blessed sun," said Petruchio. 
"Then it is the blessed sun," replied Katherine; 
" but sun it is not, when you say it is not. What 
you will have it named even so it is, and so it 
ever shall be for Katherine." Now then he suf- 
fered her to proceed on her journey; but further 
to try if this yielding humour would last, he 
addressed an old gentleman they met on the 
road as if he had been a young woman, saying 
to him., "Good morrow, gentle mistress;" and 
asked Katherine if she had ever beheld a fairer 
gentlewoman, praising the red and white of the 
old man's cheeks, and comparing his eyes to two 
bright stars; and again he -addressed him, saying, 
" Fair lovely maid, once more good day to you!" 
and said to his wife, "Sweet Kate, embrace her 
for her beauty's sake." The now completely 
vanquished Katherine quickly adopted her hus- 
band's opinion, and made her speech in like sort 
to the old gentleman, saying to him, "Young 
budding virgin, you are fair, and fresh, and sweet: 
whither are you going, and where is your dwel- 
ling? Happy are the parents of so fair a child." 
" Why, how now, Kate," said Petruchio; "I hope 
you are not mad. This is a man, old and wrin- 



TAMING OF THE SHREW. 205 

kled, faded and withered, and not a maiden, as 
you say he is." On this Katherine said, "Par- 
don me, old gentleman; the sun has so dazzled 
my eyes, that every thing I look on seemeth 
green. Now I perceive you are a reverend fa- 
ther: I hope you will pardon me for my sad mis- 
take." "Do, good old grandsire," said Petruchio, 
"and tell us which way you are tiavelling. We 
shall be glad of your good company, if you are 
going our way." The old gentleman replied, 
"Fair sir, and you my merry mistress, your 
strange encounter has much amazed me. My 
name is Vincentio, and I am going to visit a son 
of mine who lives at Padua. Then Petruchio 
knew the old gentleman to be the father of Lu- 
centio, a young gentleman who was to be married 
to Baptista's younger daughter, Bianca, and he 
made Vincentio very happy, by telling him the 
rich marriage his son was about to make; and 
they all journeyed on pleasantly together till they 
came to Baptista's house, where there was a large 
company assembled to celebrate the wedding of 
Bianca and Lucehtio, Baptista having willingly 
consented to the marriage of Bianca when he had 
got Katherine oif his hands. 

When they entered, Baptista welcomed them 
to the wedding feast, and there was present also 
another newly married pair. 

Lucentio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, the 
other new married man, could not forbear sly 
jests, which seemed to hint at the shrewish dis- 
position of Petruchio's wife, and these fond bride- 
grooms seemed highly pleased with the mild 
tempers of the ladies they had chosen, laughing 
at Petruchio for his less fortunate choice. Petru- 
18 



206 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

chio took little notice of their jokes till the ladies 
were retired after dinner, and then he perceived 
Baptista himself joined in the laugh against him; 
for when Petruchio affirmed that his wife would 
prove more obedient than theirs, the father of 
Katherine said, "Now, in good sadness, son Pe- 
truchio, I fear you have got the veriest shrew of 
all." "Well," said Petruchio, "I say no, and 
therefore for assurance that I speak the truth, let 
us each one send for his wife, and he whose wife 
is most obedient to come at first when she is 
sent for, shall win a wager which we will pro- 
pose." To this the other tw^o husbands willingly 
consented, for they were quite confident that their 
gentle wives would prove more obedient than 
the headstrong Katherine; and they proposed a 
wager of twenty crowns, but Petruchio merrily 
said, he would lay as much as that upon his hawk 
or hound, but twenty times as much upon his 
wife. Lucentio and Hortensio raised the wager 
to a hundred crowns, and Lucentio first sent his 
servant to desire Bianca would come to him. But 
the servant returned, and said, "Sir, my mistress 
sends you word she is busy and cannot come." 
"How," said Petruchio, "does she say she is 
busy and cannot come? Is that an answer for a 
wife?" Then they laughed at him^ and said, it 
would be well if Katherine did not send him a 
worse answer. And now it was Hortensio' s turn 
to send for his wife; and he said to his servant, 
" Go, and entreat my wife to come to me." ''Oh 
ho! entreat her!" said Petruchio. "Nay, then, 
she needs must come." '' I am afraid, sir," said 
Hortensio, "Your wife will not be entreated." 
But presently this civil husband looked a little 



TAMING OF THE SHREW. 207 

blank, when the servant returned without his 
mistress; and he said to him, "How now! Where 
is my wife?" " Sir," said the servant, " my mis- 
tress says, you have some goodly jest in hand, 
and therefore she wiU not come. She bids you 
come to her." '- Worse and worse!" said Petru- 
chio; and then he sent his servant, saying, "Sir- 
rah, go to your mistress, and tell her I command 
her to come to me." The company had scarcely 
tim-e to think she would not obey this summons, 
when Baptista, all in amaze, exclaimed, "Now, 
by my hollidam, here comes Katherine!" and she 
entered, saying meekly to Petruchio, "What is 
your will, sir, that you send for me?" "Where 
is your sister and Hortensio's wife?" said he. 
Katherine rephed, "They sit conferring by the 
parlour fire." "Go, fetch them hither!" said Pe- 
truchio. Away went Katherine without reply to 
perform her husband's command. "Here is a 
wonder," said Lucentio, "if you talk of a won- 
der." " And soitis," said Hortensio; "I marvel 
what it bodes." "Marry, peace it bodes," said 
Petruchio, "and love, and quiet life, and right 
supremacy; and to be short, every thing that is 
sweet and happy." Katherine' s father, overjoyed 
to see this reformation in his daughter, said, 
"Now, fair befall thee, son Petruchio! you have 
won the wager, and I will add another twenty 
thousand crowns to her dowry, as if she were 
another daughter, for she is changed as if she 
had never been." "Nay," said Petruchio, "I 
will win the wager better yet, and show more 
signs of her new-built virtue and obedience." 
Katherine now entering with the two ladies, he 
continued, "See where she comas, and brings 



208 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

your froward wives as prisoners to her womanly 
persuasion. Katherine, that cap of yours does 
not become you; off with that bauble, and throw 
it under foot." Katherine instantly took off her 
cap, and threw it down. "Lord!" said Hortensio's 
wife, "may I never have a cause to sigh till I am 
brought to such a silly pass!" And Bianca, she 
too said, "Fie, what fooUsh duty call you this?" 
On this Bianca' s husband said to her, " I wish 
your duty were as foolish too! The wisdom of 
your duty, fair Bianca, has cost me a hundred 
crowns since dinner-time." " The more fool 
you," said Bianca, "for laying on my duty." 
"Katherine," said Petruchio, "I charge you tell 
these head-strong women what duty they owe 
their lords and husbands." And to the wonder 
of all present, the reformed shrewish lady spoke 
as eloquently in praise of the wifelike duty of 
obedience, as she had practised it implicitly in a 
ready submission to Petruchio's will. And Kathe- 
rine once more became famous in Padua, not as 
heretofore, as Katherine the Shrew, but us Kathe- 
rine the most obedient and duteous wife ia Padua. 




COMEDY m ERm®lR§. 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 

The states of Syracuse and Ephesus being at 
variance, there was a cruel law made at Ephesus, 
ordaining that if any merchant of Syracuse was 
seen in the city of Ephesus, he was to be put to 
death, unless he could pay a thousand marks for 
the ransom of his life. 

JEgeon, an old merchant of Syracuse, was dis 
covered in the streets of Ephesus, and brought 
before the duke, either to pay this heavy fine, or 
to receive sentence of death. 

^geon had no money to pay the fine, and the 
duke, before he pronounced the sentence of death 
upon him, desired him to relate the history of his 
life, and to tell for what cause he ventured to 
come to the city of Ephesus, which it was death 
for any Syracusan merchant to enter. 

Mgeon said, that he did not fear to die, for 
sorrow had made him weary of his life, but that 
a heavier task could not have been imposed upon 
him than to relate the events of his unfortunate 
hfe. He then began his own history, in the fol- 
lowing words: 

"I was born at Syracuse, and brought up to 
the profession of a merchant. I married a lady 
With whom I lived very happily, but being obliged 
to go to Epidamnium, I was detained there by my 
business six months, and then, finding I should 
be obliged to stay some time longer, I sent for my 
wife, who, as soon as she arrived, was brought to 
bed of two sons, and what was very strunge, they 
18* 



210 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

were both so exactly alike, that it was impossible 
to distinguish the one from the other. At the 
same time that my wife was brought to bed of 
these twin boys, a poor woman in the inn where 
my wife lodged was brought to bed of two sons, 
and these twins were as much like each other as 
my two sons were. The parents of these chil- 
dren being exceeding poor, I bought the two boys, 
and brought them up to attend upon my sons. 

" My sons were very fine children, and my 
wife was not a little proud of two such boys: and 
she daily wishing to return home, I unwillingly 
agreed, and in an evil hour we got on shipboard; 
for we had not sailed above a leage from Epi- 
damnium before a dreadful storm arose, which 
continued with such violence, that the sailors 
seeing no chance of saving the ship, crowded 
into the boat to save their own Hves, leaving us 
alone in the ship, which we every moment ex- 
pected would be destroyed by the fury of the 
storm. 

" The incessant weeping of my wife, and the 
piteous complaints of the pretty babes, who not 
knowing what to fear, wept for fashion, because 
they saw their mother weep, filled me with terror 
for them, though I did not for myself fear death; 
and all my thoughts were bent to contrive means 
for their safety. I tied my youngest son to the 
end of a small spare mast, such as sea-faring men 
provide against storms; at the other end I bound 
the youngest of the twin slaves, and at the same 
time I directed my wife how to fasten the other 
children in like manner to another mast. She 
thus having the care of the two eldest children, 
and 1 of the two younger, we bound ourselves 



COMEDY OF ERRORS. 211 

separately to these masts with the children; and 
but lor this contrivance we had all been lost, for 
the ship split on a mighty rock and was dashed 
in pieces, and we clinging to these slender masts 
were supported above the water, where I, having 
the care of two children, was unable to assist my 
wife, who with the other children was soon sepa- 
rated from me; but while they were yet in my 
sight, they were taken up by a boat of fishermen, 
from Corinth (as I supposed,) and seeing them 
in safety, I had no care but to struggle with 
the wild sea-waves, to preserve my dear son and 
the youngest slave. At length we in our turn 
were taken up by a ship, and the sailors, knowing 
me, gave us kind welcome and assistance, and 
landed us in safety at Syracuse; but from that 
sad hour I have never known what became of my 
wife and eldest child. 

"My youngest son, and now my only care, 
when he Vv^as eighteen years of age, began to be 
inquisitive after his mother and his brother, and 
often importmied me that he might take his at- 
tendant, the young slave, who had also lost his 
brother, and go in search of them: at length 1 
unwilhngly gave consent, for though I anxiously 
desired to hear tidings of my wife and eldest son, 
yet in sending my younger one to find them, I 
hazarded the loss of him also. It is now seven 
years since my son left me; five years have I 
passed in traveUing through the world in search 
of him: I have been in farthest Greece, and 
through the bounds of Asia, and coasting home- 
wards, I landed here in Ephesus, being unwilling 
to leave any place unsought that harbours men; 
but this day must end the story of my life, and 



212 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

happy should I think myself in my death, if 1 
were assured my wife and sons were living." 

Here the haples iEgeon ended the account of 
his misfortunes; and the duke, pitying this un- 
fortunate father, who had brought upon himself 
this great peril by his love for his lost son, said, 
if it were not against the laws, which his oath 
and dignity did not permit him to alter, he wouid 
freely pardon him; yet, instead of dooming him 
to instant death, as the strict letter of the law re- 
quired, he would give Mm that day, to try if he 
could beg or borrow the money to pay the fine. 

This day of grace did seem no great favour to 
Mgeon, for not knowing any man in Ephesus, 
there seemed to him but little chance that any 
stranger would lend or give him a thousand 
marks to pay the fine: and helpless and hopeless 
of any relief, he retired from the presence of the 
duke in the custody of a jailor. 

^geon supposed he knew no person in Ephe- 
sus; but at the very time he was in danger of 
losing his life through the careful search he was 
maldng after his youngest son, that son and his 
eldest son also were both in the city of Ephesus. 

iEgeon's sons, besides being exactly alike in 
face and person, were both named alike, being 
both called Antipholis, and the two twin slaves 
were also both named Dromio, iEgeon's youngest 
son, Antipholis of Syracuse, he whom the old 
man had come to Ephesus to seek, happened to 
arrive at Ephesus with his slave Dromio that very 
same day that iEgeon did; and he being also a 
merchant of Syracuse, he would have been in 
the same danger that his fathsr was, but by good 
fortune he met a friend who told him the peril 



COMEDY OF ERRORS. 213 

an old merchant of Syracuse was in, and advised 
him to pass for a merchant of Epidamnium; this 
Antijihohs agreed to do, and he was sorry to hear 
one of his own countrymen was in this danger, 
but he little thought this old merchant was his 
own father. 

The oldest son of JEgeon (who must be ca.fled 
Antipholis of Ephesus, to distinguish him from 
his brother Antipholis of Syracuse) had lived at 
Ephesus twenty years, and, being a rich man, 
was well able to have paid the money for the 
ransom of his father's life; but Antipholis knew 
nothing of his father, being so young when he 
was taken out of the sea with his mother by the 
fishermen, that he only remembered he had been 
so preserved, but he had no recollection of either 
his father or his mother; the fishermen, who took 
up this Antipholis and his mother and the young 
slave Dromio, having carried the two children 
away from her (to the great grief of that unhappy 
lady,) intending to sell them. 

Antipholis and Dromio were sold by them to 
duke Menaphon, a famous warrior, who was uncle 
to the duke of Ephesus, and he carried the boys 
to Ephesus, when he went to visit the duke his 
nephew. 

The duke of Ephesus taking a liking to young 
Antipholis, when he grew up, made him an officer 
in his army, in which he distinguished himself 
by his great bravery in the wars, where he saved 
the life of his patron the duke, who rewarded his 
merit by marrying him to Adriana, a rich lady 
of Ephesus; with whom he was living (his slave 
Dromio still attending him) at the time his father 
came there. 



214 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Antipholis of Syracuse, when he parted witli 
his friend, who advised him to say he came from 
Epidamnium, gave his slave Dromio some money 
to, carry to the inn where he intended to dine, 
and in the mean time he said he would walk 
about and view the city, and observe the manners 
of the people. 

Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when Anti- 
pholis was dull and melancholy, he used to divert 
himself with the odd humours and merry jests 
of his slave, so that the freedoms of speech he 
allowed in Dromio were greater than is usual 
between masters and their servants. 

When Antipholis of Syracuse had sent Dromio 
away, he stood a while thinking over his solitary 
wanderings in search of his mother and his bro- 
ther, of whom in no place where he landed could 
he hear the least tidings; and he said sorrowfully 
to himself, ''I am like a drop of water in the 
ocean, which seeking to find its fellow drop, loses 
itself in the wide sea. So I unhappily, to find a 
mother and brother, do lose myself." 

While he was thus meditating on his weary 
travels, which had hitherto been so useless, Dro- 
mio (as he thought) returned. Antipholis, won- 
dering that he came back so soon, asked him 
where he had left the money. Now it was not 
his own Dromio, but the twin-brother that lived 
with Antiphohs of Ephesus, that he spoke to. 
The two Dromios and the two Antipholises were 
still as much alike as ^Egeon had said they were 
in their infancy; therefore no wonder Antipholis 
thought it was his own slave returned, and asked 
him why he came back so soon. Dromio replied, 
"My mistress sent me to bid you come to dinner 



COMEDY OF ERRORS. 215 

The capon burns, and the pig falls from the spit, 
and the meat will be all cold if you do not come 
home." "These jests are out of season," said 
Antipholis: "where did you leave the mone}^?" 
Dromio still answering, that his mistress had sent 
him to fetch Antipholis to dinner: "What mis- 
tress?" said Antipholis. " Why, your worship's 
wife, sir," replied Dromio. Antipholis having 
no wife, he was very angiy Vvdth Dromio, and 
said, "Because I familiarly sometim.es chat with 
you, you presume to jest with me in this free 
manner. I am not in a sportive humour now: 
where is the money? we being strangers here, 
how dare you trust so great a charge from your 
own custody?" Dromio hearing his master, as he 
thought him, talk of their being strangers, sup- 
posing Antipholis was jesting, replied merrily, 
"I pray you, sir, jest as you sit at dinner: I had 
no charge but to fetch you home, to dine with 
my mistress and her sister." Now Antipholis 
lost all patience, and beat Dromio, who ran home, 
and told his mistress that his master had refused 
to come to dinner, and said that he had no wife. 

Adriana, the wife of Antipholis of Ephesus, 
was very angry, when she heard that her husband 
said he had no wife; for she was of a jealous 
temper, and she said her husband meant that he 
loved another lady better than herself; and she 
began to fret, and say unkind words of jealousy 
and reproach of her husband; and her sister 
Luciana, who lived with her, tried in vain to per- 
suade her out of her groundless suspicions. 

Antiphohs of Syracuse went to the inn, and 
found Dromio with the money in safety there, 
and seeing his own Dromio, he was going again 



216 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

to chide him for his free jests, when Adriana 
came up to him, and not doubting but it was her 
husband she saw, she began to reproach him for 
looking strange upon her (as well he might, never 
having seen this angry lady before;) and then she 
told him how well he loved her before they were 
married, and that now he loved some other lady 
instead of her. "How comes it now, my hus- 
band," said she, "0 how comes it that I have 
lost your love?" "Plead you to me, fair dame?" 
said the astonished Antipholis. It was in vain 
he told her he was not her husband, and that he 
had been in Ephesus but two hours; she insisted 
on his going home with her, and Antipholis at 
last, being unable to get away, went with her to 
his brother's house, and dined with Adriana and 
her sister, the one calling him husband, and the 
other brother, he, all amazed, thinking he must 
have been married to her in his sleep, or that he 
was sleeping now. And Dromio, who followed 
them, was no less surprised, for the cook-maid, 
who was his brother's wife, also claimed him for 
her husband. 

While Antipholis of Syracuse was dining with 
his brother's wife, his brother, the real husband, 
returned home to dinner with his slave Dromio; 
but the servants would not open the door, because 
their mistress had ordered them not to admit any 
company; and when they repeatedly knocked, 
and said they were Antipholis and Dromio, the 
maids laughed at them, and said that Antipholis 
was at dinner with their mistress, and Dromio 
was in the kitchen; and though they almost 
knocked the door down, they could not gain ad- 
mittance, and at last Antipholis went away very 



C03IEDY OF ERRORS. 2)7 

angry, and strangely surprised at hearing a gen- 
tleman was dining with his wife. 

When Antipholis of Syracuse had finished his 
dinner, he was so perplexed at the lady's still 
persisting in calling him husband, and at hearing 
that Dromio had also been claimed by the cook- 
m^id, that he left the house, as soon as he could 
find any pretence to get away; for though he was 
very much pleased with Luciana, the sister, yet 
the jealous tempered Adriana he disliked very 
much, nor was Dromio at all better satisfied with 
his fair wife in the kitchen; therefore both master 
and man were glad to get away from their new 
wives as fast as they could. 

The moment Antipholis of Syracuse had left 
the house, he was met by a goldsmith, v/ho mis- 
taking him, as Adriana had done, for Antipholis 
of Ephesus, gave him a gold chain, calling him 
by his name; and when Antipholis would have 
refused the chain, saying it did not belong to him, 
the goldsmith repUed he made it by his own or- 
ders; and went- away, leaving the chain in the 
hands of Antipholis, who ordered his man Dromio 
to get his things on board a ship, not choosing to 
stay in a place any longer, where he met with 
such strange adventures that he surely thought 
himself bewitched. 

The goldsmith who had given the chain to ^.h' 
wrong Antipholis, was arrested immediately aft et 
for a sum of money he owed; and Antipholis, tlie 
married brother, to whom the goldsmith thou^-hi 
he had given the chain, happened to cone to the 
place where the officer was arresting the gold- 
smith, who, when he saw Antipholis, asked him 
to pay for the gold chain he had just delivered 
19 



218 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

to him, the price amounting to nearly the same 
sum as that for which he had been arrested. 
Antiphohs denying the having received the chain, 
and the goldsmith persisting to declare that he 
had but a few minutes before given it to him, 
they disputed this matter a long time, both think- 
ing" they were right, for Antipholis knew the 
goldsmith never gave him the chain, and, so like 
were the two brothers, the goldsmith was as cer- 
tain he had delivered the chain into his hands, 
til] at last the officer took the goldsmith away to 
prison for the debt he owed, and at the same time 
the goldsmith made the officer arrest Antipholis 
for the price of the chain; so that at the conclusion 
of their dispute, Antipholis and the merchant 
were both taken away to prison together. 

As Antipholis was going to prison, he met 
Dromio of Syracuse, his brother's slave, and mis- 
taking him for his own, he ordered him to go to 
Adriana his wife, and tell her to send the money 
for which he was arrested. Dromio wondering 
that his master should send him back to the 
strange house where he dined, and from which 
he had just before been in such haste to depart, 
did not dare to reply, though he came to tell his 
master the ship was ready to sail; for he saw 
Antipholis was in no humour to be jested with, 
Therefore he went away, grumbling within him- 
self that he must return to Adriana's house, 
"Where,'' said he, "Dowsabel claims me for a 
husband: but I must go, for servants must otey 
their masters' commands." 

Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio 
was returning, he m.et Antipholis of Syracuse, 
who was still in amaze at the surprising adven- 



COMEDY OF ERRORS. 219 

tures he met with; for his brother being well 
known in Ephesus, there was hardly a man he 
met in the streets but saluted him as an old ac- 
quaintance: some offered him money which they 
said was owing to him, some invited him to come 
and see them, and some gave him thanks for 
kindnesses they said he had done to them, all 
mistaking him for his brother. A tailor showed 
him some silks he had bought for hira, and in- 
sisted upon taking measure of him for some 
clothes. 

Antipholis began to think he was among a na- 
tion of sorcerers and witches, and Dromio did not 
at all relieve his master from his bewildered 
thoughts, by asking him how he got free from the 
officer who was carrying him to prison, and giv- 
ing him the purse of gold which Adriana had 
sent to pay the debt with. This talk of Dromio's 
of the arrest and of a prison, and of the money 
he had brought from Adriana, perfectly confound- 
ed Antipholis, and he said, "This fellow Dromio 
is certainly distracted, and we wander here in 
allusions;" and quite terrified at his own confused 
thoughts, he cried out, "Some blessed power de- 
liver us from this slrange place!" 

And now another stranger came up to him, and 
she was a lady, and she too called him Antipho- 
lis, and told him he had dined with her that day, 
and asked him for a gold chain which she said 
he had promised to give her. Antiphohs now 
lost all patience, and calling her a sorceress, he 
denied that he had ever promised her a chain, or 
dined with her, or had even seen her face before 
that moment. The lady persisted in affirming he 
had dined with her, and 'lad promised her a 



220 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

chain, which Antipholis still denying, she farthei 
said, that she had given him a valuable ring, and 
if he would not give her the gold chain, she in- 
sisted upon having her own ring again. On this 
Antipholis became quite frantic, and again calling 
her sorceress and witch, and denying all know- 
ledge of her or her ring, ran away from her, 
leaving her astonished at his words and his 
wild looks, for nothing to her appeared more cer- 
tain than that he had dined with her, and that 
she had given him a ring, in consequence of his 
promising to make her a present of a gold chain. 
But this lady had fallen into the same mistake 
the others had done, for she had taken him for 
his brother: the married Antipholis had done al] 
the things she had taxed this Antipholis with. 

When the married Antipholis was denied en- 
trance into his own house (those within supposing 
him to be already there,) he had gone away very 
angry, believing it to be one of his wife's jealous 
freaks, to which she was very subject, and re- 
membering that she had often falsely accused him 
of visiting other ladies, he to be revenged on hei 
for shutting him out of his own house, determined 
to go and dine with this lady, and she receiving 
him with great civility, and his wife having so 
highly offended him, Antipholis promised to give 
her a gold chain, which he had intended as a pre- 
sent for his wife; it was the same chain which 
the goldsmith by mistake had given to his bro- 
ther. The lady liked so well the thoughts of hav- 
ing a fine gold chain, that she gave the married 
Antipholis a ring; which when, as she supposed 
(taking his brother for him,) he denied, and said 
he did not know her, and left her in such a wil© 



COMEDY OF ERRORS. 221 

passion, she began to think he was certainly out 
of his senses; and presently she resolved to go 
and tell Adriana that her husband was mad. And 
while she was teUing it to Adriana, he came, at- 
tended by the jailor (who allowed him to come 
home to get the money to pay the debt,) for the 
purse of money, which Adriana had sent by Dro 
mio, and he had delivered to the other Antipholis. 

Adriana believed the story the lady told her of 
her husband's madness must be true, when he 
reproached her for shutting him out of his own 
house; and remembering how he had protested 
all dinner-time that he was not her husband, arid 
had never been in Ephesus till that day, she had 
no doubt that he was mad; she therefore paid the 
jailor the money, and having discharged him, she 
ordered her servants to bind her husband with 
ropes, and had him conveyed into a dark room, 
and sent for a doctor to come and cure him of his 
madness: Antipholis all the while hotly exclaim- 
ing against this false accusation, which the exact 
likeness he bore to his brother had brought upon 
him. But his rage only the more confirmed them 
in the belief that he was mad; and Dromio per- 
sisting in the same story, the}^ bound him also, 
arid took him away along with his master. 

Soon after Adriana had put her husband into 
confinement, a servant came to tell her that Anti- 
pholis and Dromio must have broken loose from 
their keepers, for that they were both walking at 
liberty in the next street. On hearing this, Adri- 
ana ran out to fetch him home, taking som.e peo- 
ple with her to secure her husband a9:ain; and 
her sister went along with her. When they came 
k) the gates of a convent in their neighbourhood, 
19* 



222 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

there they saw Antipholis and Dromio, as they 
thought, being again deceived by the likeness of 
the twin-brothers. 

Antipholis of Syracuse A7as still beset with the 
perplexities this likeness had brought upon him. 
The chain which the goldsmith had given him 
was about his neck, and the goldsmith was re- 
proaching him for denying that he had it, and 
refusing to pay for it, and Antipholis was pro- 
testing that the goldsmith freely gave him the 
chain in the morning, and that from that hour he 
had never seen the goldsmith again. 

' And now Adriana came up to him, and claim- 
ed him as her lunatic husband, who had escaped 
from -his keepers; and the men she brought with 
her were going to lay violent hands on Antipholis 
and Dromio; but they ran into the convent, and 
Antipholis begged the abbess to give him sheltei 
in her house. 

And now came out the lady abbess herself t( 
inquire into the cause of this disturbance. She 
was a grave and venerable lady, and wise to 
judge of what she saw, and she would not too 
hastily give up the man who had sought protec- 
tion in her house; so she strictly questioned the 
wife about the story she told of her husband's 
madness, and she said, "What is the cause of 
tliis sudden distemper of your husband's? Has he 
lost his wealth at sea? Or is it the death of some 
dear friend that has disturbed his mind?" Adriana 
rephed, that no such things as these had been the 
cause. "Perhaps," said the abbess, "he has fixed 
his affections on some other lady than you his 
vife; and that has r riven him to this state." 
Adriana said she had long thought the love of 



COMEDY OF ERRORS. 22'J 

some other lady was the cause of his frequent 
absences from home. Now it was not his love 
for another, but the teasing jealousy of his wife's 
temper, that often obliged Antipholis to leave his 
home; and (the abbess? suspecting this from the 
vehemence of Adrian i's manner) to learn the 
truth, she said, ''You should have reprehended 
him for this." " Why so I did," replied Adriana, 
"Ay," said the abbess, "but perhaps not enough." 
Adriana, willing to convince the abbess that she 
had said enough to Antipholis on this subject, 
replied, " It was the constant subject of our con- 
versation: in bed I would not let him sleep for 
speaking of it. At table I v/ould not let hirn eat 
for speaking of it. When I was alone with him, 
I talked of nothing else; and in company I gave 
him frequent hints of it. Still all my talk was 
how vile and bad it was in him to love any lady 
better than me." 

The lady abbess, having drawn this full con- 
fession from the jealous Adriana, now said, "And 
therefore comes it that your husband is mad. 
The venomous clamour of a jealous woman is a 
more deadly poison than a mad dog's tooth. It 
seems his sleep was hindered by your railing; no 
wonder that his head is light: and his meat, was 
sauced with your upbraidings; unquiet meals 
make ill digestions, and that has thrown him into 
this fever. You say his sports were disturbed by 
your brawls; being debarred from the enjoyment 
of society and recreation, Vvhat could ensue but 
dull melancholy and comfortless despair? The 
consequence is then, that your jealous fits have 
made your husband mad." 

Luciana would have excused her sister, saying, 



2'i4 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

she always reprehended her husband mildly; and 
she said to her sister, " Why do you hear these 
rebukes without answering them?' But the abbess 
had made her so plainly perceive her fault, that 
she could only answer, "She has betrayed me to 
my own reproof." 

Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, 
still insisted on having her husband delivered up 
to her; but the abbess v/ould suffer no person to 
enter her house, nor would she deliver up this 
unhappy man to the care of the jealous wife, 
determining herself to use gentle means for his 
recovery, and she retired into her house again, 
and ordered her gates to be shut against them 

During the course of this eventful day, in which 
so many errors bad happened from the likeness 
the twin brothers bore to each other, old iEgeon's 
day of grace was passing away, it being now near 
sunset: and at sunset he was doomed to die, if 
he could not pay the money. 

The place of his execution was near this con- 
vent, and here he arrived just as the abbess re- 
tired into the convent; the duke attending in per- 
son, that if any offered to pay the money, he 
might be present to pardon him. 

Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, 
and cried out to the duke for justice, telhng him 
that the abbess had refused to deliver up her 
lunatic husband to her care. While she was 
speaking, her real husband and his servant Dro- 
mio, who had got loose, came before the duke to 
demand justice, complaining that his wife had 
confined him on a false charge of lunacy; and 
telling in w^hat manner he had broken his bands. 
and eluded the vigilance of his keepers. Adriana 



COMEDY OF ERRORS. 225 

was strangely surprised to see her husband, when 
she thought he had been within the convent. 

^geon, seeing his son, conckided this was the 
son who had left him to go in search of his mo- 
ther and his brother; and he felt secure that this 
dear son would readily pay the money demanded 
!"or his ransom. He therefore spoke to Antipholis 
in words of fatherly affection, with joyful hope 
that he should now be released. But to the utter 
astonishment of JEgeon, his son denied all know- 
ledge of him, dJ' well he might, for this Antipho- 
lis had never seen his father since they were se- 
parated in the storm in his infancy; but while the 
poor old iEgeon was in vain endeavouring to 
make his son acknowledge him, thinking surely 
that either his griefs and the anxieties he had 
suffered had so strangely altered him that his son 
did not know him, or else that he was asham.ed 
to acknowledge his father in his misery; in the 
midst of this perplexity, the lady abbess and the 
other Antipholis and Dromio came out, and the 
wondering Adriana saw two husbands and two 
Dromios standing before her. 

And now these riddling errors, Avhich had so 
perplexed them all, were clearly made out. When 
the duke saw the two Antipholises and the two 
Dromios both so exactly alike, he at once conjec- 
tured aright of these seeming mysteries, for he 
remembered the story iEgeon had told him in 
fhe morning; and he said, these men must be the 
two sons of ^geon and their twin slaves. 

But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed 
the history of iEgeon; and the tale he had in the 
morning told in sorrow, and under sentence of 
death, before the setting sun w^nt down, was 



226 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

brought to a happy conclusion, for the venerable 
lady abbess made herself known to be the long- 
lost wife of Mgeon, and the fond mother of the 
two Antipholises. 

When the fishermen took the eldest Antipholis 
and Dromio away from her* she entered a nun- 
nery, and by her wise and virtuous conduct she 
was a+ length made lady abbess of this convent, 
and in discharging the rites of hospitality to an 
unhappy stranger she had unknowingly protected 
her own son. 

Joyful congratulations and affectionate greet 
ings between these long separated parents and 
their children, made them for a while forget that 
iEgeon was yet under sentence of death; but 
when they were become a little calm, Antipholis 
of Ephesus offered the duke the ransom money 
for his father's life; but the duke freely pardoned 
Mgeon, and would not take the money. And 
the duke went with the abbess and her newly- 
found husband and children into the convent, to 
hear this happy family discourse at leisure of the 
blessed ending of their adverse fortunes. And 
the two Dromios' humble joy must not be for- 
gotten; they had their congratulations and greet- 
ings too, and each Dromio pleasantly compli- 
mented his brother on his good looks, being well 
pleased to see his own person (as in a glass) show 
so handsome in his brother. 

Adriana had so well profited by the good coun- 
sel of her mother-in-law, that she never after 
cherished unjust suspicions, or was jealous of her 
husband. 

Antipholis of Syracuse married the fair Luci- 
ana, the sister of his brother's wife; and the good 



COMEDY OF ERRORS. 227 

old iEgeon, with his wife and sons, lived at 
Ephesus many years. Nor did the unravelling 
of these perplexities so entirely remove every 
ground of mistake for the future, but that some- 
times, to remind them of adventures past, comi- 
cal blunders would happen, and the one Anti- 
pholis, and the one Dromio, be mistaken for the 
other, making altogether a pleasant and di veiling 
Comedy of Errors. 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 

In the city of Vienna there once reigned a 
dtike of such a mild and gentle temper, that he 
suffered his subjects to neglect the laws with im- 
punity; and there was in particular one law, the 
existence of which was almost forgotten, the duke 
never having put it in force during his whole 
reign. This was a law dooming any man to the 
punishment of death, who should live with a 
woman that was not his wife; and this law through 
the lenity of the duke being utterly disregarded, 
the holy institution of marriage became neglect- 
ed, and complaints were every day made to the 
duke by the parents of the young ladies in Vi- 
enna, that their daughters had been seduced from 
their protection, and were living as the com- 
panions of single men. 

The good duke perceived with sorrow this 
growing evil among his subjects; but he thought 
that a sudden change in himself from the indul- 
gence he had hitherto shown, to the strict severity 
requisite to check this abuse, would make his 
people (who had hitherto loved him) consider 
him as a tyrant: therefore he determined to ab- 
sent himself a while from his dukedom, and de- 
pute another to the full exercise of his power, 
that the law against these dishonourable lovers 
might be put in effect, without giving offence by 
an unusual severity in his own person. 

Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a 
saint in Vienna for his strict and rio;id life, was 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 229 

chosen by the duke as a fit person to undertake 
this important charge; and when the duke im- 
parted his design to lord Escalus, his chief coun- 
sellor, Escalus said, "If any man in Vienna be 
of worth to undergo such ample grace and ho- 
nour, it is lord Angelo." And now the duke de- 
parted from Vienna under pretence of making a 
journey into Poland, leaving Angelo to act as the 
lord deputy in his absence; but the duke's ab- 
sence was only a feigned one, for he privately 
returned to Vienna, habited like a friar, with the 
intent to watch unseen the conduct of the saintly- 
seeming Angelo. 

It happened just about the time that Angelo 
was invested with his new dignity, that a gentle- 
man, whose name was Claudio, had seduced a 
young lady from her parents; and for this offence, 
by command of tlie new lord deputy, Ciaudio 
was taken up and committed to prison, and by 
virtue of the old law which had been so long ne- 
glected, Angelo sentenced Claudio to be behead- 
ed. Great interest was made for the pardon of 
young Claudio, and the good old lord Escalus 
himself interceded for him. "Alas," said he, 
" this gentleman whom I would save had an ho- 
nourable father, for whose sake I pray you pardon 
the young man's transgression." But Angelo re- 
plied, " We must not make a scarecrow of the 
law, setting it up to frighten birds of prey, till 
custom, finding it harmless, makes it their perch, 
and not their terror. Sir, he must die." 

Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in the 

prison, and Claudio said to him, "I pray you, 

Lucio, do me this kind service. Go to my sister 

Isabel, who this day proposes to enter the convent 

20 



230 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

of Saint Clare; acquaint her with the danger of 
my state; implore her that she make friends with 
the strict deputy; bid her go herself to Angelo. 
I have great hopes in that; for she can discourse 
with prosperous art, and well she can persuade; 
besides, there is a speechless dialect in youthful 
sorrow, such as moves men." 

Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said^ 
that day entered upon her noviciate in the con- 
vent, and it was her intent after passing through 
h(^.r probation as a novice, to take the veil, and 
she was inquiring of a nun concerning the rules 
of the convent, when they heard the voice of 
Lucio, who, as he entered that religious house, 
said, " Peace be in this place!" "Who is it that 
speaks?" said Isabel. "It is a man's voice," re- 
phed the nun: "Gentle Isabel, go to him, and 
learn his business; you may, I may not. When 
you have taken the veil, you must not speak with 
men but in the presence of the prioress; then if 
you speak, you must not show your face, or if 
you show your face, you must not speak." "And 
have you nuns no farther privileges?" said Isabel. 
"Are not these large enough?" replied the nun, 
"Yes, truly," said Isabel: "I speak not as desir- 
ing more, but rather wishing a more strict re- 
straint upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint 
Clare." Again they heard the voice of Lucio, 
and the nun said, " He calls again. I pray you 
answer him." Isabel then went out to Lucio, and 
in answer to his salutation, said, "Peace and 
prosperity! Who is it that calls?" Then Lacio, 
approaching her with reverence, said, "Hail, 
virgin, if such you be, as the roses in your cheeks 
proclaim you are no less! can you bring me to 



.MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 2-31 

the sight of Isabel, a novice of this place, and 
the fair sister to her unhappy brother Claudio?" 
" Why her unhappy brother?" said Isabel, "let 
me ask: for I am that Isabel, and his sister." 
"Fair and gentle lady," he replied, "your bro- 
ther kindly greets you by me; he is in prison." 
•'Woe is me! for what?" said Isabel. Lucio then 
told her, Claudio was imprisoned for seducing a 
young maiden. "Ah," said she, " I fear it is my 
cousin Juliet." Juliet and Isabel were not related, 
but they called each other cousin in remembrance 
of their school-days' friendship; and as Isabel 
knew that Juliet loved Claudio, she feared she 
had been led by her affection for him into this 
transgression. " She it is," replied Lucio. "Why 
then let my brother marry Juliet," said Isabel. 
Lucio replied, that Claudio would gladly marry 
Juliet, but that the lord deputy had sentenced 
him to die for his offence; " Unless," said he, 
" you have the grace by your fair prayer to soften 
Angelo, and that is my business between, you and 
your poor brother." "Alas," said Isabel, "what 
poor ability is there in me to do him good? I 
doubt I have no power to move Angelo." "Our 
doubts are traitors," said Lucio, " and make us 
lose the good we might often win, by fearing to 
attempt it. Go to lord Angelo! When maidens 
sue, and kneel, and weep, men give like gods." 
"I will see what I can do," said Isabel: "I wiU 
but stay to give the prioress notice of the affair, 
and then I will go to Angelo. Commend me to 
my brother: soon at night I w'U send him word 
of my success." 

Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw her- 
self on her knees before Angelo, saying, " I am 



232 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

a woful suitor to your honour, if it will plea?e. 
your honour to hear me." "Well, what is your 
suit?" said Angelo. She then made her petition 
in the most moving terms for her brother's life. 
But Angelo said, " Maiden, there is no remedy: 
your brother is sentenced, and he nmst die." " 
just, but severe law!" said Isabel: "I had a bro- 
ther then — Heaven keep your honour!" and she 
was about to depart. But Lucio, who had accom- 
panied her, said, "Give it not over so; return to 
him again, entreat him, kneel down before him, 
hang upon his gc wn. You are too cold; if you 
should need a pm, you could not with a more 
tame tongue desire it." Then again Isabel on 
her knees implored for mercy. "He is sentenced," 
said Angelo: "it is too late." "Too late!" said 
Isabel: " Why, no; I that do speak a word, may 
call it back again. Believe this, my lord, no 
ceremony that to great ones belongs, not the king's 
crown, nor the deputed swoi'd, the marshal's 
truncheon, nor the judge's robe, becomes them 
with one half so good a grace as mercy does." 
" Pray you begone," said Angelo. But still Isabel 
entreated; and she said, " If my brother had been 
as you, and you as he, you might have slipped 
like him, but he like you would not have been so 
stern. I would to Heaven I had your power, and 
you were Isabel. Should it then be thus! No, 
I would tell you what it were to be a judge, 
and what a prisoner." "Be content, fair maid!" 
said Angelo: "it is the law, not I, condemns 
your brother. Were he my kinsman, my brother 
or my son, it should be thus v/ith him. He must 
die to-morrow." "To-morrow?" said Isabel; "Oh 
that is sudden: spare him, spare nim; he is not 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 233 

prepared for death. Even for our kitchens we 
kill the fowl in season; shall we serve Heaven 
with less respect than we minister to our gross 
selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you, none 
have died for my brother's offence, though many 
have committed it. So you would be the first 
that gives this sentence, and he the first that suf- 
fers it. Go to your own bosom, my lord; knock 
there, and ask your heart what it does know that 
is like my brother's fault; if it confess a natural 
o:uiltiness such as his is, let it not sound a thought 
against my brother's life!" Her last words more 
moved Angelo than all she had before said, for 
the beauty of Isabel had raised a guilty passion 
in his heart, and he began to form thoughts of 
dishonourable love, such as Claudio's crime had 
been; and the conflict in his mind made him to 
turn away from Isabel: but she called him back, 
saying, "Gentle my lord, turn back; hark, how I 
will bribe you. Good my lord, turn back!" " How, 
bribe me!" said Angelo, astonished that she should 
think of offering him a bribe. " Ay," said Isabel, 
" with such gifts that Heaven itself shall share 
with you; not with golden treasures, or those 
glittering stones, whose price is either rich or 
poor as fancy values them, but with true prayers 
that shall be up to Heaven before sunrise — prayers 
from preserved souls, from fasting maids whose 
minds are dedicated to nothing temporal." — 
"Well, come to me to-morrow," said Angelo. 
And for this short respite of her brother's life, 
and for this permission that she might be heard 
again, she left him with the joyful hope that she 
should at last prevail over his stern nature: and 
as she went away, she said, "Heaven keep your 
20* 



234 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

honour safe! Heaven save your honour!" Wbicn 
when Angelo heard, he said within his heart, 
"Amen, I would be saved from thee and from 
thy virtues:" and then, affrighted at his own evil 
thoughts, he said, " What is this? What is this? 
Do I love her, that I desire to hear her speak 
again, and feast upon her eyes? What is it 1 
dream on? The cunning enemy of mankind, to 
catch a saint, with saints does bait the hook. JNe- 
ver could an immodest woman once stir my tem- 
per, but this virtuous woman subdues me quite. 
Even till now, when men were fond, I smiled 
and wondered at them." 

In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo suf- 
fered more that niglit; than the prisoner he had 
so severely sentenced, for in the prison Claudio 
was visited by the good duke, who in his friar's 
habit taught the young man the way to Heaven, 
preaching to him the words of penitence and 
peace. But Angelo felt all the pangs of irreso- 
lute guilt: now wishing to seduce Isabel from the 
paths of innocence and honour, and now^ suffer- 
ing remorse and horror for a crime as yet but in- 
tentional. But in the end his evil thoughts pre- 
vailed; and he who had so lately started at the 
offer of a bribe, resolved to tempt this maiden 
with so high a bribe, as she might not be able to 
resist, even with the precious gift of her dear 
brother's life. 

When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo de- 
sired she might be admitted alone to his presence: 
and being there, he said to her, if she would 
yield to him her virgin honour, and transgress 
even as Juliet had done with Claudio, he would 
give her her brother's life: "For," said he, "I 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 235 

love you, Isabel." "My brother," said Isabel, 
" did so love Juliet, and yet you tell me he shall 
die for it." "But," said Angelo, " Claudio shall 
not die, if you will consent to visit me by stealth 
at night, even as Juliet left her father's house at 
night to come to Claudio." Isabel in amazement 
at his words, that he should tempt her to the 
same fault for which he passed sentence of death 
upon her brother, said, " I would do as much for 
my poor brother as for myself; that is, were I un- 
der sentence of death, the impression of keen 
whips I would wear as rubies, and go to my death 
as to a bed that longing I had been sick for, ere 
I would yield myself up to this shame." And 
then she told him, she hoped he only spoke these 
words to try her virtue. But he said, " Believe 
me on my honour, my words express my pur- 
pose." Isabel, angered to the heart to hear him 
use the word Honour to express such dishonour- 
able purposes, said, " Ha! little honour, to be 
much believed; and most pernicious purpose. I 
will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for it! Sign me 
a present pardon for my brother, or I will tell the 
world aloud what man thou art!" " Who will 
believe you, Isabel?" said Angelo; " my unsoiled 
name, the austereness of my life, my word vouch- 
ed against yours, will outweigh your accusation. 
Redeem your brother by yielding to my will, or 
he shall die to-morrow. As for you, say what 
you can, my false will overweigh your true story. 
Answer me to-morrow." 

"To whom should I c'omplain? Did I tell this, 
who would believe Oic?" said Isabel, as she wen4; 
towards the dreary prison where her brother was 
confined. When she arrived there, her brother 



236 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

was in pious conversation with the duke, who, in 
his friar's habit had also visited Juhet, and brought 
both these guilty lovers to a proper sense of their 
fault; and unhappy Juliet with tears and a true 
remorse confessed, that she was more to blame 
than Claudio, in that she willingly consented to 
his dishonourble solicitations. 

As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was 
confined, she said, "Peace be here, grace, and 
good company!" "Who is there?" said the dis- 
guised duke: " come in; the wish deserves a wel- 
come." "My business is a word or two with 
Claudio,,' said Isabel. Then the duke left them 
together, and desired the provost, who had the 
charge of the prisoners, to place him where he 
might overhear their conversation. 

"Now, sister, what is the comfort!" said Clau- 
dio. Isabel told him he must prepare for death 
on the morrow. "Is there no remedy?" said 
Claudio. "Yes, brother," replied Isabel, "there 
is; but such a one, as if you consented to it would 
strip your honour from you, and leave you naked." 
" Let me know the point," said Claudio. " O, I 
do fear you, Claudio!" rephed his sister; " and I 
quake, lest you should wish to live, and more re- 
spect the trifling term of six or seven winters 
added to your life, than your perpetual honour! 
Do you dare to die? The sense of death is most 
in apprehension, and the poor beetle that we tread 
upon, feels a pang as great as when a giant dies." 
" Why do you give me this, shame?" said Clau- 
dio. ' Think you I can fetch a resolution from 
flower}' tenderness? If I must die, I will encoun- 
ter daj'liuess as a bride, and hug it in my arms.'' 
"There spoke my brother," said Isabel; "there 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 237 

my father's grave did utter forth a voice. Yes, 
you must die; yet would you think it, Claudio! 
this outward sainted deputy, if I would yield to 
him my virg-in honour, would grant j^our life. 0, 
were it but my life, I would lay it down for your 
deliverance as frankly as a pin!" " Thanks, dear 
Isabel," said Claudio: " Be ready to die to-mor- 
row," said Isabel. "Death is a fearful thing," 
if^aid Claudio. "And shamed life a hateful," re- 
plied his sister. But the thoughts of death now 
overcame the constancy of Claudio'? temper, and 
terrors, such as the guilty only at theii deaths do 
kiiow, assailing him, he cried out, " Sweet sister, 
let me live! The sin you do to save a brother's 
life, nature dispenses with the deed so faj", that 
it becomes a virtue." " faithless coward! 
dishonest wretch!" said Isabel: "would you pre- 
serve your life by your sister's shame? fie, fie, 
fie! I thought, my brother, you had in you such 
a mind of honour, that had you twenty heads to 
render up on twenty blocks, you v^^ould have 
yielded them up all, before your sister should 
ptoop to such dishonour." " Nay, hear me, Isa- 
bel!" said Claudio. But what he would have said 
in defence of his weakness, in desiring to live 
by the dishonour of his virtuous sister, was in- 
terrupted by the entrance of the duke; who said, 
" Claudio, I have overheard what has passed be- 
tween you and your sister, Angelo had nevei 
the purpose to corrupt her; what he said, has only 
been to make trial of her virtue. She having the 
truth of honour in her, has given him that gra- 
cious denial which he is most glad to receive. 
There is no hope that he will pardon you; there- 
fore pass your hours in prayer, and make ready 



238 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

for death." Then Claudio repented of his weak 
ness, and said, 'Let me ask my sister's pardon! 
I am so out of ]ove with hfe, that I will sue to be 
rid of it." And Claudio retired, overwhelmed 
with shame and sorrow for his fault. 

The duke being now alone with Isabel, com- 
mended her virtuous resolution, saying, " The 
hand that made you fair, has made you good." 
"0," said Isabel, " how much is the good duke 
deceived in Angelo! if ever he return, and I can 
speak to him, I will discover his government." 
Isabel knew not that she was even now making 
the discovery she threatened. The duke replied, 
" That shall not be much amiss; yet as the matter 
now stands, Angelo will repel your accusation; 
therefore lend an attentive ear to my advisings. 
I believe that you may most righteously do a poor 
wronged lady a merited benefit, redeem your 
brother from the angry law, do no stain to your 
own most gracious person, and much please the 
absent duke, if perad venture he shall ever return 
to have notice of this business." Isabel said. 
She had a spirit to do any thing he desired, pro- 
vided it was nothing wrong. " Virtue is bold, 
and never fearful," said the duke: and then he 
asked her, if she had ever heard of Mariana, the 
sister of Frederick, the great soldier who was 
drowned at sea. "I have heard of the lady," 
said Isabel, '' and good words went with her 
name." " This lady," said the duke, ''is the wife 
of Angelo; but her marriage dowry was on board 
the vessel in which her brother perished, and 
mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentle- 
woman! for, beside the loss of a most noble and 
renowned brother, who in his love towards her 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 23S 

Vv'as (iver most kind and natural, in the wreck of 
her fortune she lost the atfections of her husband, 
the well seeming Angelo; who pretending to dis- 
cover some dishonour in this honourable lady 
(though the true cause was the loss of her dowry") 
left her in her tears, and dried not one of them 
V ith his comfort. His unjust unkindness, that 
in all reason should have quenched her love, 
has, hke an impediment in the current, made it 
more unruly, and Mariana loves her cruel hus- 
band w4th the full continuance of her first affec- 
tion. The duke then more plainly unfolded his 
plan. It was, that Isabel should go to lord An- 
gelo, and seemingly consent to come to him as 
he desired, at midnight; that by this means she 
would obtain the promised pardon; and that Ma- 
riana should go in her stead to the appointment, 
and pass herself upon Angelo in the dark for 
Isabel. " Nor, gentle daughter," said the feigned 
tiiar, " fear you to do this thing; Angelo is her 
husband, and to bring them thus together is no 
sin." Isabel being pleased with this project, de- 
parted to do as he directed her; and he went to 
apprize Mariana of their intention. He had be- 
foi-e this time visited this unhappy lady in his 
assumed character, giving her religious instruc- 
tion and friendly consolation, at which times he 
had learned her sad story from her ow^n lips; and 
now she, looking upon him as a holy man, rea- 
dily consented to be directed by him in this un- 
dertaking. 

When Isabel returned from her interview with 
A.ngelo, to the house of Mariana, where the duke 
had appointed her to meet him, he said " Well 
met, and io ,^;ood time; what is the nev/s fron\ 



240 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

tbis good deputy?" Isabel related the manner in 
which she had settled the affair. "Angelo," 
said she, " has a garden surrounded with a brick 
wall, on the western side of which is a vineyard, 
and to that vineyard is a gate." And then she 
showed to the duke and Mariana two keys that 
Angelo had given her; and she said, "This big- 
ger key opens the vineyard gate; this other a 
little door which leads from the vineyard to the 
garden. There I have made my promise at the 
dead of night to call upon him, and have got 
from him his Vv^ord of assurance for my brother's 
life. I have taken a due and wary note of the 
place; and with whispering and most guilty dili- 
gence he showed me the way twice over." "Are 
there no other tokens agreed upon between you, 
that Mariana must observe?" said the duke. "No, 
none," said Isabel, "only to go when it is dark. 
I have told him my time can be but short; for I 
have made him think a servant comes along with 
me, and that this servant is persuaded I come 
about my brother." The duke commended her 
discreet management, and she, turning to Ma- 
riana, said, "Little have you to say to Angelo, 
when you depart from him, but soft and low 
Rememher now my hr other V 

Mariana was that night conducted to the ap- 
pointed place by Isabel, who rejoiced that she 
had, as she supposed, by this device preserved 
both her brother's life and her own honour. But 
that her brother's life was safe the duke was not 
well satisfied, and therefore at midnight he again 
repaired to the prison and it was well for Claudio 
that he did so, else would Claudio have that night 
been beheaded; for soon after the duke entered 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 211 

the prison, an order came from the cruel deputy, 
commanding that Claudio should be beheaded, 
ami his head sent to him oy five o'clock in the 
morning. But the duke persuaded the provost 
to put off the execution of Claudio, and to de- 
ceive Angelo, by sending him the head of a man 
who died that morning in the prison. And to 
prevail upon the provost to agree to this, the duke, 
whom still the provost suspected not to be any 
thing more or greater than he seemed, showed 
the provost a letter written with the duke's hand, 
and sealed with his seal, which v/hen the provost 
saw, he concluded this friar must have some se- 
cret order from the absent duke, and therefore 
he consented to spare Claudio; and he cut oif the 
dead man's head, and carried it to Angelo. 

Then the duke, in his ov/n name, wrote to An- 
gelo a letter, saying that certain accidents had 
put a stop to his journey, and that he should be 
in Vienna by the following morning, requiring 
Angelo to meet him at the entrance of the city, 
there to deliver up his authority; and the duke 
also commanded it to be proclaimed, that if any 
of his subjects craved redress for injustice, they 
should exhibit their petitions in the street on his 
first entrance into the city. 

Early in the morning Isabel came to tne pri- 
pon, and the duke, v/ho there awaited her com- 
ing, for secret reasons thought it good to tell her 
that Claudio was beheaded; therefore when Isabel 
inquired if Angelo had sent the pardon for her 
brother, he said, "Angelo has released Claudio 
from this world. His head is off, and sent to the 
deputy.'.' The much-grieved sister cried out, 
" unhappy Claudio, wTetched Isabel, injurious 
21 



^42 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

world, most wicked Angelo!" The seeming friar 
bid her take comfort, and when she was become 
a httle calm, he acquainted her with the near 
prospect of the duke's return, and told her in 
what manner she should proceed in preferring 
her complaint against Angelo; and he bade her 
not to fear if the cause should seem to go ugainst 
her for a while. Leaving Isabel sufficiently in- 
structed, he next went to Mariana, and gave her 
counsel in what manner she also should act. 

Then the duke laid aside his friar's habit, and 
in his own royal robes, amidst a joyful crowd of 
his faithful subjects assembled to greet his arri- 
val, entered the city of Vienna, where he was 
met by Angelo, who delivered up his authority 
in the proper form. And there came Isabel, in 
the manner of a petitioner for redress, and said, 
" Justice, most royal duke! I am the sister of one 
Claudio, who for the seducing a young maid was 
condemned to lose his head. I made my suit to 
lord Angelo for m}^ brother's pardon. It were 
needless to tell your grace how I prayed and 
kneeled, how he repelled me, and how I replied; 
for this was of much length. The vile conclu- 
sion I now begin with grief and shame to utter. 
Angelo would not but by my yielding to his dis- 
honourable love release my brother; and after 
much debate within myself, my sisterly remorse 
overcame my virtue, and I did yield to him. But 
the next morning betimes, Angelo, forfeiting his 
promise, sent a warrant for my poor brother's 
head!" The duke affected to disbelieve her story; 
and Angelo said that grief for her brother's death, 
who had suffered by the due course of « the law, 
had disordered her senses. And now another 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 243 

Rnitor approached, which was Mariana; and Ma- 
riana said, "Noble prince, as there comes light 
from heaven,, and truth from breath, as there is 
sense in truth, and truth in virtue, I am this 
man's wife, and, my good lord, the words of Isa- 
bel are false, for the night she says she was with 
Angelo, I passed that night with him in the gar- 
den-house. As this is true, let me in safety rise, 
or else for ever be fixed here a marble monu- 
ment." Then did Isabel appeal for the truth of 
what she had said to friar Lodowick, that being 
the name the duke had assumed in his disguise. 
Isabel and Mariana had both obeyed his instruc- 
tions in what they said, the duke intending that 
the innocence of Isabel should be plainly proved 
in that public manner before the whole city of 
Vienna; but Angelo little thought that it was 
from such a cause that they thus differed in their 
story, and he hoped from their contradictory evi- 
dence to be able to clear himself from the accu- 
sation of Isabel; and he said, assuming the look 
of offended innocence, "I did but smile till now; 
but, good, my lord, my patience here is touched, 
and I perceive these poor distracted women are 
but the instruments of some greater one, who 
sets them on. Let me have way, my lord, to 
find this practice out." "Ay, with all my heart," 
said the duke, " and punish them to the height 
of your pleasure. You, lord Escalus, sit with 
lord Angelo, lend him your pains to discover 
this abuse; the friar is sent for that set them on, 
and when he comes, do with your injuries as 
may seem best in any chastisement. I for a 
while will leave you, but stir not you, lord An- 
gelo till you have well determined upon this 



244 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

slander." The duke then went away, leaving 
Angelo well pleased to be deputed judge and 
umpire in his own cause. But the duke was ab- 
sent only while he threw off his royal robes and 
put on his friar's habit; and in that disguise again 
he presented himself before Angelo and Escalus: 
and the good old Escalus, who thought Angelo 
had been falsely accused, sa?d to the supposed 
friar, " Come, sir, did you set these women on 
to slander lord Angelo?" He replied, "Where 
is the duke? It is he should hear me speak." Es- 
calus said, "The duke is in us, and we will hear 
you. Speak justly." "Boldly at least," retort- 
ed the friar; and then he blamed the duke for 
leaving the cause of Isabel in the hands of him 
she had accused, and spoke so freely of many 
corrupt practices he had observed, while, as he 
said, he had been a looker-on in Vienna, that 
Escalus threatened him with the torture for speak- 
ing words against the state, and for censuring the 
conduct of the duke, and ordered him to be taken 
away to prison. Then, to the amazement of aU 
present, and to the utter confusion of Angelo, 
the supposed friar threw off his disguise, and they 
saw it was the duke himself 

The duke first addressed Isabel. He said to 
her, " Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now 
your prince, but with my habit I have not changed 
my heart. I am stiil devoted to your service.* 
' give me pardon," said Isabel, "that I, your 
vassal, have employed and troubled your un- 
known sovereignty." He answered th^it he had 
most need of forgiveness from her, for not hav- 
ing prevented the death of her brother — for not 
yet would he tell her that Claudio was living; 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 2-15 

meaning first to make a farther trial of her good- 
ness. Angelo now knew the duke had been a 
^secret witness of his bad deeds, and he said; 
*" O my dread lord. I should be guiltier than my 
guiltiness, to think I can be undiscernible, when 
I perceive your grace, like power divine, has 
looked upon my actions. Then, good prince, no 
longer prolong my shame, but let my trial be 
my own confession. Immediate sentence and 
death is all the grace I beg." The duke replied, 
"Angelo, thy faults are manifest. We do con- 
demn thee to the very block where Claudio 
stooped to death; and with like haste away with 
him; and for his possessions, Mariana, we do 
instate and widow you withal, to buy you a bet- 
ter husband." " my dear lord," said Mariana, 
'•' I crave no other, nor no better man:" and then 
on her knees, even as Isabel had begged the life 
of Claudio, did this kind wdfe of an ungrateful 
husband beg the life of Angelo; and she said, 
"Gentle m.y liege, O good my lord! Sweet Isa- 
bel, take my part! Lend me your knees, and all 
my life to come I will lend you, all my life, to 
do you service!" The duke said, "Against all 
sense you importune her. Should Isabel kneel 
down to beg for mercy, her brother's ghost wouJd 
break his paved bed, and take her hence in hor- 
ror" Still Mariana said, "Isabel, sweet Isabel, 
do but kneel by me, hold up your hand, say no- 
thing! I will speak all. They say, best men are 
moulded out of faults, and for the most part be- 
come much the better for being a little bad. So 
may my husband. Oh, Isabel, will you not lend 
1 knee.?" The duke then said, "He dies for 
Claudio." But much pleased w^as the good duke 
2P 



246 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

when his own Isabel, from whom he expected 
all gracious and honourable acts, kneeled down 
before him, and said, "Most bounteous sir, look, 
if it please you, on this man condemned, as if 
my brother lived. I partly think a due sincerity 
governed his deeds, till he did look on me. 
Since it is so, let him not die! My brother had 
but justice, in that he did the thing for which he 
died." 

The duke, as the best reply he could make to 
this noble petitioner for her enemy's life, sending 
for Claudio from his prison-house, where he lay 
doubtful of his destiny, presented to her this la- 
mented brother living; and he said to Isabel, 
" Give me your hand, Isabel; for your lovely 
sake I pardon Claudio. Say you will be mine, 
and he shall be my brother too." By this time 
lord Angelo perceived he was safe; and the duke 
observed his eye to brighten up a little, said, 
"Well, Angelo, look that you love your wife; her 
worth has obtained your pardon: joy to you, 
Mariana! Love her, Angelo! I have confessed 
her, and know her virtue." Angelo remembered, 
when dressed in a httle brief authority, how hard 
his heart had been, and felt how sweet is m^rcy. 

The duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet, 
and oifered himself again to the acceptance of 
Isabel, whose virtuous and noble conduct had 
won her prince's heart. Isabel, not having taken 
the veil, was free to nvarry; and the friendly of- 
fices, while hid under the disguise of a humble 
friar, which the noble duke had done for her, 
made her with grateful joy accept the honour he 
offered her; and when she became duchess of 
Vienna, the excellent example of the virtuous 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 2^17 

Isabel woi'ked such a complete reformation among 
the .young ladies of that city, that from that time 
none ever fell into the transgression of Juliet, the 
repentant wife of the reformed Claudio. And 
the mercy -loving duke long reigned with his 
beloved Isabel, the happiest of husbands and of 
princes. 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL 

Sebastian and his sister Viola, a young gen- 
tleman and lady of Messaline, were twins, and 
(which was accounted a great wonder) from their 
birth they so much resembled each other, that, 
but for the difference in their dress, they could 
not be known apart. They were both born in one 
hour, and in one hour they were both in danger 
of perishing, for they were shipwrecked on the 
coast of Illyria as they were making a sea- voyage 
together. The ship, on board of which they 
were, spht on a rock in a violent storm, and a 
very small number of the ship's company escaped 
with their lives. The captain of the vessel, with 
a few of the sailors that were saved, got to land 
in a small boat, and with them they brought 
Viola safe on shore, where she, poor lady, instead 
of rejoicing at her own deliverance, began to la- 
ment her brother's loss; but the captain comforted 
her with the assurance, that he had seen her bro- 
ther, when the ship split, fasten himself to a 
strong mast, on which, as long as he could see 
any thing of him for the distance, he perceived 
him borne up above the waves. Viola was much 
consoled by the hope this account gave her, and 
now considered how she was to dispose of her- 
self in a strange country, so far from home; and 
she asked the captani if he knew any thing of 
Illyria. " Ay, very well, madam." rephed the 
captain, ''for I was born not three hours' travel 
from this place." "Who governs here?" said 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 249 

Viola. The captain told her, Illyria was governed 
by Orsino, a duke noble in nature as well as dig- 
nity. Viola said, she had heard her father speak 
of Orsino, and that he was unmarried then. 
^'And he is so now," said the captain; "or was 
so very lately, for but a month ago I went from 
here, and then it was the general talk (as you 
know what great ones do the people will prattle 
of) that Orsino sought the love of fair Olivia, a 
virtuous maid, the daughter of a count whc died 
tVi^elve months ago, leaving Olivia to the protec- 
tion of her brother, who shortly after died also; 
and for the love of this dear brother, they say, 
she has abjured the sight and company of men." 
Viola, who was herself in such a sad affliction 
for her brother's loss, wished she could live with 
this lady, who so tenderly mourned a brother's 
death. She asked the captain if he could intro- 
duce her to Olivia, saying she would willingly 
serve this lady. But he replied, this would be a 
hard thing to accomplish, because the lady Olivia 
would admit no person into her house since her 
brother's death, not even the duke himself. Then 
Viola formed another project in her mind, which 
was, in a man's habit to serve the duke Orsino 
as a page. It was a strange fancy in a young 
lady to put on male attire, and pass for a boy; but 
the forlorn and unprotected state of Viola, who 
was young and of uncommon beauty, alone, and 
in a foreign land, must plead her excuse. 

She having observed a fair behaviour in the 
captain, and that he showed a friendly concern 
for her welfare, entrusted him with her design, 
and he readily engaged to assist her- Viola gave 
him money, and directed him to furnish her with 



250 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

suitable apparel, ordering her clothes to be made 
of the same colour and in the same fashion her 
brother Sebastian used to wear, and when she 
was dressed in her manly garb, she looked so ex- 
actly like her brother, that some strange errors 
happened by'means of their being mistaken for 
each other; for, as will afterwards appear, Sebas- 
tian was also saved. 

Viola's good friend, the captain, when he had 
transformed this pretty lady into a gentleman, 
having some interest at court, got her presented 
to Orsino under the feigned name of Cesario. 
The duke was wonderfully pleased with the ad- 
dress and graceful deportment of this handsome 
youth, and made Cesario one of his pages, that 
being the office Viola wished to obtain: and she 
so well fulfilled the duties of her new station, 
and showed such a ready observance and faithful 
attachment to her lord, that she soon became his 
most favoured attendant. To Cesario Orsino 
confided the whole history of his love for the 
lady Olivia. To Cesario he told the long and 
unsuccessful suit he had m.ade to one, who, re- 
jecting his long services, and despising his per- 
son, refused to admit him to her presence; and 
for the love of this lady who had so unkindly 
treated him, the noble Orsino, forsaking the sports 
of the field, and all manly exercises in which he 
used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble sloth, 
listening to the effeminate sounds of soft music, 
gentle airs, and passionate love-songs; and ne- 
glecting the company of the wise and learned 
lords with whom he used to associate, he was 
now all day long conversing with young Cesario. 
Unmeet companion no doubt his grave courtiers 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 251 

Ihought Cesario was for their once noble master, 
the great duke Orsino. 

It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to 
be the confidants of handsome young dukes; 
which Viola too soon found to her sorrow, for all 
that Orsino told her he endured for Olivia, she 
presently perceived she suffered for the love of 
him: and much it moved her wonder, that OKvia 
could be so regardless of this her peerless lord 
and master, whom she thought no one should be- 
hold without the deepest admiration, and she 
ventured gently to hint to Orsino, that it was pity 
he should affect a lady who was so blind to his 
worthy qualities; and she said, ''If a lady were 
to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia (and per- 
haps there may be one who does,) if you could 
not love her in return, would you not tell her that 
you could not love, and must not she be content 
with this answer?" But Orsino would not admit 
of this reasoning, for he denied that it was pos- 
sible for any woman to love as he did. He said, 
no woman's heart was big enough to hold so 
much love, and therefore it was unfair to com- 
pare the love of any lady for him, to his love for 
Olivia. Now though Viola had the utmost defer- 
ence for the duke's opinions, she could not help 
thinking this was not quite true, for she thought 
her heart had full as much love in it as Orsi- 
no's had; and she said, "Ah, but I know, my 

lord." -""V\'hat do you know, Cesario?" said 

Orsino. "Too well I know," replied Viola, 
" what love women may owe to men. They are 
as true of heart as we are. My father had a 
daughter loved a man, as I perhaps, were I a 
woman, should love your lordship." 'And what 



^2 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

is her history?" said Orsino. "A blank, my lord,' 
replied Viola: " she never told her love, but let 
concealment, like a worm in the bud, prey on 
her damask cheek. She pined in thought, and 
with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like 
Patience on a monument, smiling at grief." The 
duke inquired if this lady died of her love, but 
to this question Viola returned an evasive an- 
sv^er; as probably she had feigned the story, to 
speak words expressive of the secret love and 
silent grief she suffered for Orsino. 

While they were talking, a gentleman entered 
whom the duke had sent to Olivia, and he said, 
'' So please you, my lord^ I might not be admitted 
to the lady, but by her handmaid she returned 
you this answer: Until seven years hence, the 
element itself shall not behold her face; but like a 
cloistress she will walk veiled, watering her cham- 
ber with her tears for the sad remembrance of 
her dead brother." On hearing this, the duke 
exclaimed, " she that has a heart of this fine 
frame, to pay this debt of love to a dead brother, 
how will she love, when the rich golden shaft 
has touched her heart!" And then she said to 
Viola, ''You know, Cesario, I have told you all 
the secrets of my heart; therefore, good youth, 
go to Olivia's house. Be not denied access; 
stand at her doors, and tell her there your fixed foot 
shall grow till you have audience." "And if I do 
speak to her, my lord, what then?" said Viola. 
" then," rephed Orsino, "unfold to her the 
passion of my love. Make a long discourse to 
her of my dear faith. It will well become you to 
act my woes, for she will attend more to you than 
to one of graver aspect." 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 253 

Away then went Viola; but not willingly did 
she undertake this courtship, for she was to woo 
a lady to become a wife to him she wished to 
marry: but having undertaken tlie affair, she per- 
formed it with fidelity; and Olivia soon heard 
that a youth was at her door who insisted upon 
being admitted to her presence. ''I told him," 
said the servant, ''that you were sick: he said he 
knew you were, and therefore he came to speak 
with you. I told him that you were asleep: he 
seemed to have a foreknowledge of that too, and 
said, that therefore he must speak with you. 
What is to be said to him, lady? for he seems 
fortified against all denial, and will speak with 
you, whether he will or no." Olivia, curious to 
see who this peremtory messenger might be, de- 
sired he might be admitted; and throwing her 
veil over her face, she said she would once more 
hear Orsino's embassy, not doubting but that he 
came from the duke, by his importunity. Viola 
entering, put on the most manly air she could 
assume, and affecting the fine courtier's language 
of great men's pages, she said to the veiled 
lady, "Most radiant, exquisite, and matchless 
beauty, I pray you tell me if you are the lady of 
the house; for I should be sorry to cast away my 
speech upon another; for besides that it is ex- 
cellently well penned, I have takwi great pains to 
learn it." "Whence come you, sir?" said Ohvia. 
"I can say little more than I have studied," re- 
plied Viola; "and tha-t question is out of my 
part." "Are you a comedian?" said Olivia. "No," 
replied Viola; "and yet I am not that which I 
play;" meaning, that she being a woman, feigned 
herself to be a man. And ao;ain she asked Ohvia 
23 



254 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

if she were the lady of the house. Olivia said 
she was; and then Viola, having more curiosity 
to see her rival's features, than haste to deliver 
her master's message, said, " Good madam, let 
me see your face." With this bold request Olivia 
was not averse to comply: for this haughty beauty, 
whom the duke Orsino had loved so long in vain, 
at first sight conceived a passion for the supposed 
page, the humble Cesario. 

When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, 
"Have you any commission from your lord and 
master to negotiate with my face?" And then, 
forgetting her determination to go veiled for seven 
long years, she drew aside her veil, saying, " But 
I will draw the curtain and show the picture. Is 
it not well done?" Viola replied, "It is beauty 
truly mixed; the red and white upon your cheeks 
is by Nature's own cunning hand laid on. You 
are the most cruel lady Kving, if you will lead 
these graces to the grave, and leave the world 
no copy." " O, sir," replied Olivia, "I will not 
be so cruel. The world may have an inventory 
of my beauty. As, item, two lips, indifferent 
red; item, two gray eyes, with lids to them; one 
neck; one chin, and so forth. Were you sent 
here to praise me?" Viola replied, "I see what 
you are: you are too proud, but you are fair. My 
lord and master loves you. such a love could 
but be recompensed, though you were crowned 
the queen of beauty: for Orsino loves you with 
adoration and with tears, with groans that thun- 
der love, and sighs of fire." "Your lord," said 
Olivia, " knows well my mind. I cannot love 
him; yet I doubt not he is virtuous; I know him 
to be noble and of high estate, of fresh and spot- 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 255 

less youth. All voices proclaim him learned, 
courteous, and valiant; yet I cannot love him, he 
might have taken his answer long ago." " If I 
did love you as my master does," said Viola, " I 
would make me a willow cabin at your gates, and 
call upon your name. I would write complain 
ing sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in the dead 
of the night; your name should sound among 
the hills, and I would make Echo, the babbling 
gossip of the air, cry out Olivia. O you should 
not rest between the elements of earth and air, 
but you should pity me." "You might do 
much," said Olivia: "what is your parentage.''" 
Viola replied, "Above my fortunes, yet my state 
is well, I am a gentleman." Olivia now reluc- 
tantly dismissed Viola, saying, " Go to your mas- 
ter, and tell him, I cannot love him. Let him 
send no more, unless perchance you come again 
to tell me how he takes it." And Viola departed, 
bidding the lady farewell by the name of Fair 
Cruelty. When she was gone, Olivia repeated 
the words, Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. 
I am a gentleman. And she said aloud, "I will 
be sworn he is; his tongue; his face, his limbs, 
action, and spirit, plainly show he is a gentle- 
man." And then she wished Cesario was the 
duke; and perceiving the fast hold he had taken 
on her affections, she blamed herself for her sud- 
den love; but the gentle blame which people lay 
upon their own faults has no deep root: and pre- 
sently the noble lady Olivia so far forgot the in- 
equality between her fortunes and those of this 
seeming page, as well as the maidenly reserve 
which is the chief ornament of a lady's charac- 
ter, that she resolved to court the love of young 



256 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Cesario. and sent a s>-3rvant after him with a dia- 
mond ring, under the pretence that he h*ad left it 
with her as a present from Orsino. She hoped 
by thus artfully making Cesario a present of the 
ring, she would give him some intimation of hei 
design; and truly it did make Viola suspect; foi 
Knowing that Orsino had sent no ring by her, she 
began to recollect that Olivia's looks and mannei 
were expressive of admiration, and she presently 
guessed her master's mistress had fallen in love 
with her. "Alas," said she, " the poor lady 
might as well love a dream. Disguise I see is 
wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as 
fruitless sighs for me, as I do for Orsino." 

Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related 
to her lord the ill success of the negotiation, re- 
peating the command of Olivia, that the duke 
should trouble her no more. Yet still the duke 
persisted in hoping that the gentle Cesario would 
in time be able to persuade her to show some 
pity, and therefore he bade him he should go to 
her again the next day. In the mean time to 
pass away the tedious interval, he commanded a 
song which he loved to be sung, and he said, 
"My good Cesario, when I heard that song last 
night, methought it did relieve my passion much. 
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. The spin- 
sters and the knitters when they sit in the sun, 
and the young maids that weave tJtieir thread 
with bone, chant this song. It is silly, yet I love 
it, for it tells of the innocence of love in the old 
times." 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 257 



SONG. 



Come away, come away, Death, 

And in sad cypress let me be laid; 
Fly away, fly away, breath, 
I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O p epare it, 
My part of death no one so true did share it. 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet. 

On my black coffin let there be strown: 
Not a friend, not a friend greet 

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. 
A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where 
Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there. 

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old 
song, which in such true simplicity described the 
pangs of unrequited love, and she bore testimony 
in her countenance of feeling what the song ex- 
pressed. Her sad looks were observed by Orsino, 
who said to her, "My life upon it, Cesario, though 
you are so young, your eye has looked upon some 
face that it loves; has it not, boy?" "A Uttle, with 
your leave," replied Viola. " And what kind of 
woman, and of what age is she?" said Orsino. 
" Of your age, and of your complexion, my lord," 
said Viola; which made the duke smile to hear 
this fair young boy loved a woman so much older 
than himself, and of a man's dark complexion; 
but Viola secretly meant Orsino, and not a wo- 
man like him. 

When Viola made a second visit to Olivia, she 
found no difficulty in gaining access to her. Ser- 
vants soon discover when their ladies delight to 
converse with handsome young messengers; and 
the instant Viola arrived, the gates were thrown 
22* 



258 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

wide open, and the duke's page was shown into 
Ohvia's apartment with great respect; and when 
Viola told Oliv.ia that she was come once more to 
plead in her lord's behalf, this lady said, " I de- 
sired you never to speak of him again; but if 
you would undertake another suit, I had rather 
hear you solicit, than music from the spheres." 
This was pretty plain speaking, but Olivia soon 
explained herself still more plainly, and openly 
confessed her love; and when she saw displea- 
sure with perplexity expressed in Viola's face, she 
said, " O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in 
the contempt and anger of his lip! Cesario, by 
the roses of the spring, by maidhood honour, and 
by truth, I love you so, that, in spite of your 
pride, I have neither wit nor reason to conceal 
my passion." But in vain the lady wooed; Viola 
hastened from her presence, threatening never 
more to come to plead Orsino's love; and all the 
reply she made to Olivia's fond solicitations was, 
a declaration of a resolution Mever to love any 
woman. 

No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim 
was made upon her valour. A gentleman, a re- 
jected suitor of Olivia, who had learned how that 
lady had favoured the duke's messenger, chal- 
lenged him to fight a duel. What should poor 
Viola do, who, though she carried a manlike out- 
side, had a true woman's heart, and feared to 
look on her own sword! 

When she saw her formidable rival advancing 
towards her with his sword drawn, she began to 
think of confessing that she was a woman; but 
she was relieved at once from her teri-or, and the 
shame of such a discovery, by a stranger that 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 259 

was passing by, who made up to them, and as if he 
had been long known to her, and were her dear- 
est friend, said to her opponent, "If this young 
gentleman has done offence, I will take the fault 
on me; and if you offend him, I will for his sake 
defy you." Before Viola had time to thank him 
for his protection, or to inquire the reason of 
his kind mterference, her new friend met with 
an enemy where his bravery was of no use to 
him; for the officers of justice coming up in 
that instant, apprehended the stranger in the 
duke's name to answer for an offence he had 
committed some years before; and he said to 
Viola, " This comes with seeking you:" and then 
he asked her for a purse, saying, " Now my ne- 
cessity makes me ask for my purse, and it grieves 
me much more for what I cannot do for you, than 
for what befalls myself You stand amazed, but 
be of comfort." His words did indeed amaze 
Viola, and she protested she knew him not, nor 
had ever received a purse from him; but for the 
kindness he had just shown her, she offered him 
a small sum of money, being nearly the whole 
she possessed. And now the stranger spoke se- 
vere things, charging her with ingratitude and 
unkindness. He said, "This youth, whom you 
see here, I snatched from the jaws of death, and 
for his sake alone I came to Illyria. and have 
fallen into this danger." But the officers cared 
little for hearkening to the complaints of their 
prisoner, and they hurried him off, saying, " What 
IS that to us?" And as he was carried away, he 
called Viola by the name of Sebastian, reproach- 
ing the supposed Sebastian for disowning his 
friend, as long as he was within hearing. When 



^(50 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

V^ioja heard herself called Sebastian, though the 
stranger was taken away too hastily for her to ask 
an explanation, she conjectured that this seeming 
mystery might arise from her being mistaken for 
her brother; and she began to cherish hopes that 
it was her brother whose life this man said he 
had preserved. And so indeed it was. The stran- 
ger, whose name was Anthonio, was a sea-cap- 
tain. He had taken Sebastian up into his ship, 
when, almost exhausted with fatigue, he was 
floating on the mast to which he had fastened 
himself in the storm. Anthonio conceived such 
a friendship for Sebastian, that he resolved to ac- 
company him whithersoever he went; and when 
the youth expressed a curiosity to visit Orsino's 
court, Anthonio, rather than part from him, came 
to Illyria, though he knew, if his person should 
be known there, his life would be in danger, be- 
cause in a seafight he had once dangerously 
wounded the duke Orsino's nephew. This was the 
offence for which he was now made a prisoner. 
Anthonio and Sebastian had landed together 
but a few hours before Anthonio met Viola. He 
had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring him to 
use it freely if he saw any thing he wished to 
purchase, telling him he would wait at the inn, 
while Sebastian went to view the town: but Se- 
bastian not returning at the time appointed, An- 
thonio had ventured out to look for him, and 
Viola being dressed the same, and in face so ex- 
actly resembling her brother, Anthonio drew his 
sword (as he thought) in defence of the youth 
he had saved, and when Sebastian (as he sup- 
posed) disowned him, and denied him his own 
purse, no wonder he accused him of ingratitude. 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 261 

Viola, when Anthonio was gone, fearing a se- 
cond invitation tc fight, slunk home as fast as she 
could. She had not been long gone, when her 
adversary thought he saw her leturn; but it was 
her brother Sebastian who happened to arrive at 
this place, and he said, "Now, sir, have I met 
with you again? There's for you;" and struck him 
a blow. Sebastian was no coward; he returned 
the blow with interest, and drew his sword. 

A lady now put a stop to this duel, foe Olivia 
came out of the house, and she too mistaking 
Sebastian for Cesario, invited him to com.e into 
her house, expressing, much sorrow at the rude 
attack he had met with. Though Sebastian was 
as much surprised at the courtesy of this lady as 
at the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet he went 
very willingly into the house, and Olivia was de- 
lighted to find Cesario (as she thought him) be- 
come more sensible of her attentions; for though 
their features were exactly the same, there was 
none of the contempt and anger to be seen in his 
face, which she had complained of when she told 
her love to Cesario. 

Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness 
the lady lavished on him. He seemed to take it 
in very good part, yet he wondered how it had 
come to pass, and he was rather inclined to think 
Olivia was not in her right senses; but perceiving 
that she was mistress of a fine house, and that 
she ordered her affairs and seemed to govern her 
family discreetly, and that in all but her sudden 
love tor him she appeared in the full possession 
of her reason, he well approved of the courtship; 
and Olivia finding Cesario in this good humour, 
and fearing he might change his mind, proposed 



262 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

that, as she had a priest in the house, they should 
be instantly married. Sebastian assented to this 
proposal; and when the marriage ceremony was 
over, he left his lady for a short time, intending 
to go and tell his friend Anthonio the good for- 
tune that he had met with. In the mean time 
Orsino came to visit Olivia: and at the moment 
he arrived before Olivia's house, the officers of 
justice brought their prisoner, Anthonio, before 
the duke. Viola was with Orsino, her master; 
and when Anthonio saw Viola, whom he still 
imagined to be Sebastian, he told the duke in 
what manner he had rescued this youth from the 
perils of the sea; and after fully relating all the 
kindness he had really shown to Sebastian, he 
ended his complaint with saying, that for three 
months, both day and night, this ungrateful youth 
had been with him. But now the lady Olivia 
coming forth from her house, the duke could no 
longer attend to Anthonio' s story; and he said, 
" Here comes the countess: now Heaven walks 
on earth! but for thee, fellow, thy words are mad- 
ness. Three months has this youth attended on 
me:" and then he ordered Anthonio to be taken 
aside. But Orsino' s heavenly countenance soon 
gave the duke cause to accuse Cesario as much 
of ingratitude as Anthonio had done, for all the 
words he could hear Olivia speak were words of 
kindness to Cesario: and when he found his page 
had obtained this high place in Olivia's favour 
he threatened him with all the terrors of his just 
revenge; and as he was going to depart, he called 
Viola to follow him, sajing, " Come, boy, with 
me. My thoughts are ripe for mischief." Though 
it seemed in his jealous rage he was going to 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 263 

doom Viola to instant death, yet her love made 
her no longer a coward, and she said she would 
most joyfully suffer death to give her master ease. 
But OUvia would not so lose her husband, and 
she cried, "Where goes my Cesario?" Viola re- 
phed, "After him I love more than my hfe." 
Olivia however prevented their departure b}^ 
loudly proclaiming that Cesario was her husband, 
and sent for the priest, who declared that not two 
hours had passed since he had married the lady 
Olivia to this young man. In vain Viola pro- 
tested she was not marrid to Olivia; the evidence 
of that lady and the priest made Orsino beheve 
that his page had robbed him of the treasure he 
prized above his life. But thinking that it was 
past recall, he was bidding farewell to his faith- 
less mistress, and the young dissembler, her hus- 
band, as he called Viola, warning her never to 
come in his sight again, when (as it seemed to 
them) a miracle appeared! for another Cesario 
entered, and addressed Olivia as his wife. This 
new Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband of 
Olivia; and when their wonder had a little ceased 
at seeing two persons with the same face, the 
same voice, and the same habit, the brother and 
sister began to question each other, for Viola 
could scarce be persuaded that her brother was 
living, and Sebastian knew not how to account 
for the sister he supposed drowned being found 
in the habit of a young man. But Viola pre- 
sently acknowledged that she was indeed Viola 
and his sister under that disguise. 

When all the errors were cleared up which the 
extreme likeness between this twin brother and 
sister had occasioned, they laughed at the lady 



264 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had made in 
falling in love with a woman; and Olivia showed 
no dislike to her exchange, when she found she 
had wedded the brother instead of the sister. 

The hopes of Orsino were for ever at an end 
by this marriage of Olivia, and with his hopes, 
all his fruitless love seemed to vanish away, and 
all his thoughts were fixed on the event of his 
favourite, young Cesario, being changed into a fair 
lady. He viewed Viola with great attention, and 
he remembered how very handsome he had al- 
ways theught Cesario was, and he concluded she 
would look very beautiful in a woman's attire; 
and then he remembered how often she had said 
she loved him, which at the time seemed only the 
dutiful expressions of a faithful page, but now he 
guessed that something more was meant, for 
many of her pretty sayings, which were like rid- 
dles to him, came now into his mind, and he no 
sooner remembered all these things than he re- 
solved to make Viola his wife; and he said to 
her (he still could not help calling her Cesario 
and boy,) " Boy, you have said to me a thousand 
times that you should never love a woman like 
to me, and for the faithful service you have done 
for me so much beneath your soft and tender 
breeding, and since you have called me master 
so long, you shall now be your master's mistress, 
and Orsino's true duchess." 

Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that 
heart, which she had so ungraciously rejected, to 
Viola, invited them to enter her house, and offered 
the assistance of the good priest, who had mar- 
ried her to Sebastian in the morning, to perform 
the same ceremony in the remaining part of the 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 265 

day for Orsino and Viola. Thus the twin bro- 
ther and sister were both wedded on the same 
day: the storm and shipwreck, which had sepa- 
rated them, bemg the means of bringing to pass 
their high and mighty fortunes. Viola was the 
wife of Orsino, the duke of Illyria, and Sebastian 
the husband of the rich and noble countess, the 
lady Olivia. 

23 



TIMON CF ATHENS. 

TiMON, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of 
a princely fortune, affected a humour of liberality 
which knew no limits. His almost infinite wealth 
could not flow in so fast, but he poured it out 
faster upon all sorts and degrees of people. Not 
the poor only tasted of his bounty, but great lords 
did not disdain to rank themselves among his de- 
pendants and followers. His table was resorted 
to by all the luxurious feasters, and his house was 
open to all comers and goers at Athens. His 
large we-alth combined with his free and prodigal 
nature to subdue all hearts to his love; men of 
all minds and dispositions tendered their services 
to lord Timon, from the glass-faced flatterer, whose 
face reflects as in a mirror the present humour 
of his patron, to the rough and unbending cynic, 
who affecting a contempt of men's persons, and 
an indifference to worldly things, yet could not 
stand out against the gracious manners and muni- 
ficent soul of lord Timon, but would come (against 
his nature) to partake of his royal entertainments, 
and return most rich in his own estimation if he 
had received a nod or a salutation from Timon. 

If a poet had composed a work which wanted 
a recommendatory introduction to the world, he 
had no more to do but to dedicate it to lord Ti- 
mon, and the poem was s*ire of a sale, besides a 
present purse from the patron, and daily access 
to his house and table. If a painter had a pic- 
ture to dispose of, he had only to take it to lord 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 267 

Timon, and pretend to consult his taste as to the 
merits of it; nothing more was wanting to per- 
suade the hberal-hearted lord to buy it. If a 
jeweller had a stone of price, or a mercer rich 
costly stuffs, which for their costliness lay upon 
his hands, lord Timon's house was a ready mart 
always open, where they might get off their w^ares 
or their jewellery at any price, and the good-na- 
tured lord would thank them into the bargain, as 
if they had done him a piece of courtesy in letting 
him have the refusal of such precious commodi- 
ties. So that by this means his house was thronged 
with superfluous purchases, of no use but to swell 
uneasy and ostentatious pomp; and his person 
was still more inconveniently beset with a crowd 
of these idle visiters, lying poets, painters, shark- 
ing tradesmen, lords, ladies, needy courtiers, and 
expectants, who continually filled liis lobbies, 
raining their fulsome flatteries in whispers in his 
ears, sacrificing to him with adulation as to a 
God, making sacred the very stirrup by which he 
mounted his horse, and seeming as though they 
drank the free air but through his permission and 
bounty. 

Some of these daily dependants were young 
men of birth, who (their means not ansvv-ering 
to their extravagance) had been put in prison by 
creditors, and redeemed thence by lord Timon; 
these young prodigals thenceforward fastened 
upon his lordship, as if by common sympathy he 
were necessarily endeared to all such spendthrifts 
and loose livers, who, not being able to follow 
him in his wealth, found it easier to copy him in 
prodigality and copious spending of what was not 
tlieir ov/n. One of these flesh-flies was Vanti- 



268 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



dius, for whose debts unjustly contracted Timon 
but lately had paid down the sum of five talents. 

But among this confluence, this great flood of 
visiters, none were more conspicuous than the 
makers of presents and givers of gifts. It was 
fortunate fo'r these men, if Timon took a fancy 
to a dog or a horse, or any piece of cheap furni- 
ture which was theirs. The thing so praised, 
whatever it was, was sure to be sent the next 
morning with the compliments of the giver for 
lord Timon' s acceptance, and apologies for the 
unworthiness of the gift; and this dog, or horse, 
or whatever it might be, did not fail to produce, 
from Timon's bounty, who would not be outdone 
in gifts, perhaps twenty dogs or horses, certainly 
presents of far richer worth, as these pretended 
donors knew well enough, and that their false 
presents were but the putting out of so much 
money at large and speedy interest. In this way 
lord Lucius had lately sent to Timon a present 
of four milk-white horses trapped in silver, which 
this cunning lord had observed Timon upon some 
occasion to commend; and another lord, Lucul- 
lus, had bestowed upon him in the same pretend- 
ed way of free gift a brace of greyhounds, whose 
make and fleetness Timon had been heard to ad- 
mire: these presents the easy-hearted lord accept- 
ed without suspicion of the dishonest views ol 
fc:3 presenters; and the givers of course were re 
warded with some rich return, a diamond or some 
jewel of twenty times the value of their false and 
mercenary donation. 

Sometimes these creatures would go to work 
in a more direct way, and with gross and palpable 
artifice, which yet the credulous Timon was too 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 269 

blind to see, would affect to admire and praise 
somelhing that Timon possessed, a bargain that 
he had bought, or some late purchase, which was 
sure to draw from this yielding and soft-hearted 
lord a gift of the thing commended, for no ser- 
vice in the world done for it but the easy expense 
of a little cheap and obvious flattery. In this 
way Timon but the other day had given to one 
of these mean lords the bay courser which he 
himself rode upon, because his lordship had been 
pleased to say that it was a handsome beast and 
went well; and Timon knew that no man ever 
justly praised what he did not wish to possess. 
For lord Timon weighed his friend's affection with 
his own, and so fond was he of bestowing, that 
he could have dealt kingdoms to these supposed 
friends, and never have been weary. 

Not that Timon' s wealth all went to enrich 
these wicked flatterers; he could do noble and 
praise-worthy actions; and when a servant of his 
once loved the daughter of a rich Athenian, but 
could not hope to obtain her by reason that in 
wealth and rank the maid was so far above liim, 
lord Timon freely bestowed upon his servant three 
Athenian talents, to make his fortune equal with 
the dowry which the father of the young maid 
demanded of him who should be her husband. 
But for the most part, knaves and parasites had 
the command of his fortune, false friends whom 
he did not know to be such, but, because they 
flocked around his person, he thought they must 
needs love him; and because they smiled and 
flattered him, he thought surely that his conduct 
was approved by all the wise and good. And 
when he was feasting in the midst of all these 
23* 



270 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

flatterers and mock friends, when they were eat- 
ing him up, and draining his fortunes dry with 
large draughts of richest wines drunk to his health 
and prosperity, he could not perceive the differ- 
ence of a friend from a flatterer, but to his de- 
luded eyes (made proud with the sight) it seemed 
a precious comfort to have so many, like brothers 
commanding one another's fortunes (though it 
was his own fortune which paid all the costs,) 
and with joy they would run over at the specta- 
cle of such, as it appeared to him, truly festive 
and fraternal meeting. 

But while he thus outwent the very heart of 
kindness, and poured out his bounty, as if Plutus, 
the god of gold, had been but his steward; while 
thus he proceeded without care or stop, so sense- 
less of expense that he would neither inquire 
how he could maintain it, nor cease his wild flow 
of riot; his riches, which were not infinite, must 
needs melt away before a prodigality which knew 
no limits. But who should tell him so? his flat- 
terers? they had an interest in shutting his eyes. 
In vain did his honest steward Flavins try to re- 
present to him his condition, laying his accounts 
before him, begging of him, praying of him, with 
an importunity that on any other occasion would 
have been unmannerly in a servant, beseeching 
him with tears, to look into the state of his affairs, 
Timon w^ould stiK put him ofl", and turn the dis- 
course to something else; for nothing is so deaf 
to remonstrance as riches turned to poverty, no- 
thing is so unwilling to believe its situation, no- 
thing so incredulous to its own true state, and 
hard to give credit to a reverse. Often had this 
c^ood stew^ard, this honest creature, when all the 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 271 

rooms of Timon's great house have been choked 
up with riotous feeders at his master's cost, when 
the floors have wept with drunken spilling of 
wine, and every apartment has blazed with lights 
and resounded with music and feasting, often had 
he retired by himself to some solitary spot, and 
v/ept faster than the wine ran from the wasteful 
casks within, to see the mad bounty of his lord, 
and to think, when the means were gone which 
bought him praises from all sorts of people, how 
quickly the breath would be gone of which the 
praise was made; praises won in feasting would 
be lost in fasting, and at one cloud of winter- 
showers these flies would disappear. 

But now the time was come that Timon could 
shut his ears no longer to the representations of 
this faithful stew^ard. Money must be had; and 
when he ordered Flavins to sell some of his land 
for that purpose. Flavins informed him, what he 
had in vain endeavoured at several times before 
to make him listen to, that most of his land was 
already sold or forfeited, and that all he possessed 
at present was not enough to pay the one half of 
what he owed. Struck with wonder at this re- 
presentation, Timon hastily replied, " My lands 
extended from Athens to Lacedemon." " my 
good lord," said Flavius, "the world is but a 
world, and has bounds; were it all yours to gi"ve 
it in a breath, how quickly were it gone!" 

Timon consoled himself that no villanous bounty 
had yet come from him, that if he had given his 
wealth away unwisely, it had not been bestowed 
to feed his vices, but to cherish his friends; and 
he bade the kind-hearted steward (who was weep- 
ing; to take coir.fort in the assurance that his 



272 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

master could never lack means, while he had so 
many noble friends; and this infatuated lord per- 
suaded himself that he had nothing to do but to 
send and borrow, to use every man's fortune 
(that had ever tasted his bounty) in this ex- 
tremity, as freely as his own. Then with a cheer- 
ful look, as if confident of the trial, he severally 
dispatched messengers to lord Lucius, to lords 
LucuUus and Sempronius, men upon whom he 
had lavished his gifts in past times without mea- 
sure or moderation; and to Ventidius, whom he 
had lately released out of prison by paying his 
debts, and who by the death of his father was 
now come into the possession of an ample for- 
tune, and well enabled to requite Timon's cour- 
tesy; to request of Ventidius the return of those 
five talents which he had paid for him, and of 
each of those noble lords the loan of fifty talents: 
nothing doubting that their gratitude would sup- 
ply his wants (if he needed it) to the amount of 
five hundred times fifty talents. 

Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean 
lord had been dreaming overnight of a silver 
bason and cup, and when Timon's servant was 
announced, his sordid mind suggested to him that 
tljis was surely a making out of his dream, and 
that Timon had sent him such a present: but 
when he understood the truth of the matter, and 
that Timon wanted money, the quality of his 
faint and watery friendship showed itself, for with 
many protestations he vowed to the servant that he 
had long foreseen the ruin of his master's affairs, 
and many a time had he come to dinner, to tell 
him of it, and had come again to supper, to try 
to persuade him to spend less, but he would take 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 273 

no counsel nor warning by his coming: and true 
it was that iie had been a constant attender (as 
he said) at Timon's feasts, a. he had in greater 
things tasted his bounty, but that he ever came 
with that intent, or gave good counsel or reproof 
to Timon, was a base unworthy lie, which he 
suitably followed up with meanly offering the ser- 
vant a bribe, to go home to his master and tell 
him that he had not found Lucullus at home. 

As little success had the messenger who was 
sent to lord Lucius. This lying lord, who was 
full of Timon's meat, and enriched almost to 
bursting with Timon's costly presents, when he 
found the wind changed, and the fountain of so 
much bounty suddenly stopped, at first could 
hardly believe it; but on its being confirmed, he 
affected great regret that he should not have it in 
his power to serve lord Timon, for unfortunately 
(which was a base falsehood) he had made a 
great purchase the day before, which had quite 
disfurnished him of the means at present, the 
more beast he, he called himself, to put it out of 
his power to serve so good a friend; and he 
counted it one of his greatest afflictions that his 
ability should fail him to pleasure such an honour- 
able gentleman. 

Who can call any man friend that dips in the 
same dish with him? just of this metal is every 
flatterer. In the recollection of every body Ti- 
mon had been a father to this Lucius, had kept 
up his credit with his purse; Timon's money had 
gone to pay the wages of his servants, to pay the 
hire of the labourers who had sweat to build the 
fine houses which Lucius' s pride had made ne- 
cessary to him: yet, oh! the monster which man 



274 TALES FROM SHAKSPEaRE. 

makes himself wlien he proves ungrateful! this 
Lucius now denied to Timon a sum, which, in 
respect of what Timon had bestowed on him, was 
less than charitable men afford to beggars. 

Sempronius and every one of these mercenary 
lords to whom Timon applied in their turn, re- 
turned the same evasive answer or direct denial; 
even Ventidius, the redeemed and now rich Ven- 
tidius, refused to assist him with the loan of those 
five talents which Timon had not lent but gene- 
rously given him in his distress. 

Now was Timon as much avoided in his po- 
verty as he had been courted and resorted to in 
his riches. Now the same tongues which had 
been loudest in his praises, extolling him as boun- 
tiful, liberal, and open-handed, were not ashamed 
to censure that very bounty as folly, that liberality' 
as profuseness, though it had shown itself folly 
in nothing so truly as in the selection of such 
unworthy creatures as themselves for its objects. 
Now was Timon' s princely mansion forsaken, 
and become a shunned and hated place, a place 
for men to pass by, not a place as formerly where 
every passenger must stop and taste of his wine 
and good cheer; now instead of being thronged 
with feasting and tumultuous guests, it was beset 
with impatient and clamorous creditors, usurers, 
extortioners, fierce and intolerable in their de- 
mandb, pleading bonds, interest, mortgages, iron- 
hearted men that would take no denial nor put- 
ting oif, that Timon'te house Vv^as now his jail, 
which he could not pass, nor go in nor out for 
them; one demanding his due of fifty talents, 
another bringing in a bill of five thousand crowns, 
which if he would tell out his blood by drops, 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 275 

and pay them so, he had not enough in his body 
to discharge, drop by drop. 

In this desperate and irremediable state (as it 
seemed) of his affairs, the eyes of all men were 
suddenly surprised at a new and incredible lustre 
which this setting sun put forth. Once more 
lord -^imon proclaimed a feast, to which he in- 
vited his accustomed guests, lords, ladies, all tliat 
was great or fashionable in Athens. Lords Lucius 
and Lucullus came, Ventidius, Sempronius, and 
the rest. Who more sorry now than these fawn- 
ing wretches, when they found (as they thought) 
that lord Timon's poverty was all pretence, and 
had been only put on to make trial of their loves, 
to think that they should not have seen through 
the artifice at the time, and have had the cheap 
credit of obliging his lordship? yet who more 
glad to find the fountain of that noble bounty, 
which they had thought dried up, still fresh and 
running? They came dissembling, protesting, ex- 
pressing deepest sorrow and shame, that when 
his lordship sent to them, they should have been 
so unfortunate as to want the present means to 
oblige so honourable a friend. But Tim^on begged 
them not to give such trifles a thought, for he had 
altogether forgotten it. And these base fawning 
lords, though they had denied him money in his 
adversity, yet could not refiise their presence at 
this new blaze of his returning prosperity. For 
the swallow follows not summer more willingly 
thaii men of these dispositions follow the good 
fortunes of the great, nor more willingly leaves 
winter than these shrink from the first appear- 
ance of a reverse; such summer birds are men. 
But now with music and state the banquet of 



276 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

smoking dishes was served up; and when the 
guests had a Uttle done admiring whence the 
bankrupt Timon could find means to furnish so 
costly a feast, some doubting whether the scene 
which they saw was real, as scarce trusting theii 
own eyes; at a signal given, the dishes were un- 
covered, and Timon's drift appeared: instead of 
those varieties and far-fetched dainties which they 
expected, that Timon's epicurean table in past 
times had so liberally presented, now appeared 
under the covers of these dishes a preparation 
more suitable to Timon's poverty, nothing but a 
little smoke and lukewarm water, fit feast for this 
knot of mouth-friends, whose professions were 
indeed smoke, and their hearts lukewarm and 
slippery as the water, with which Timon wel- 
comed his astonished guests, bidding them, " Un- 
cover, dogs, and lap;" and before they could re- 
cover their surprise, sprinkling it in their faces, 
that they might have enough, and throwing 
dishes and all after them, who now ran huddling 
out, lords, ladies, with their caps snatched up in 
haste, a splendid confusion, Timon pursuing 
them, still calling them what they were, "Smooth 
smiling parasites, destroyers under the mask of 
courtesy, affable wolves, meek bears, fools of for- 
tune, feast-friends, time-flies." They, crowd- 
ing out -to avoid him, left the house more wil- 
lingly than they had entered it; some losing their 
gowns and caps, and some their jewels in the 
hurry, all glad to escape out of the presence of 
such a mad lord, and the ridicule of his mock 
banquet. 

This was the last feast which ever Trmon made, 
and in it he took farewell of Athens and the 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 277 

society of men, for, after that, he betook himself 
to the woods, turning his back upon the hated 
city and upon all mankind, wishing the walls of 
that detestable city might sink, and the houses 
fall upon their owners, wishing all plagues which 
iiifest humanity, war, outrage, poverty, diseases, 
might fasten upon its inhabitants, praying ihe 
just gods to confound all Athenians, both young 
and old, high and low; so wishing he went to the 
woods, where he said he should find the unkindest 
beast much kinder than mankind. He stripped 
himself naked, that he might retain no fashion 
of a man, and dug a cave to live in, and lived 
solitary in the manner of a beast, eating the wild 
roots, and drinking water, flying from the face of 
his kind, and choosing rather to herd with wild 
beasts, as more harmless and friendly than man. 

What a change from lord Timon the rich, lord 
Timon the delight of mankind, to Timon the 
naked, Timon the man-hater! Where were his 
flatterers now? Where were his attendants and 
retinue? Would the bleak air, that boisterous 
servitor, be his chamberlain, to put his shirt on 
warm? Would those stifl* trees, that had outlived 
the eagle, turn young and airy pages to him, to 
skip on his errands when he bade them? Would 
the cold brook, when it was iced with winter, 
administer to him his warm broths and caudles 
when sick of an overnight's surfeit? Or would 
the creatures that lived in those wild woods come 
and lick his hand and flatter him? 

Here on a day, when he was digging for roots, 

his poor sustenance, his spade struck against 

something heavy, which proved to be gold, a great 

heap which some miser had probably buried in a 

24 



278 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

time of alarm, thinking to have come again and 
taken it from its prison, but died before the op- 
portunity had arrived, without making any man 
privy to the conceahnent; so it lay, doing neither 
good nor harm, in the bowels of the earth, its 
mother, as if it had never come from thence, till 
the accidental striking of Timon's spade against 
it once more brought it to light. 

Here was a mass of treasure which if Timon- 
had retained his old mind, was enough to have 
purchased him friends and flatterers again; but 
Timon was sick of the false world, and the sight 
of gold was poisonous to his eyes; and he would 
have restored it to the earth, but that, thinking of 
the infinite calamities which by means of gold 
happen to mankind, how the lucre of it causes 
robberies, oppression, injustice, briberies, vio- 
lence, and murder, among men, he had a plea- 
sure in imagining (such a rooted hatred did he 
bear to his species) that out of this heap which 
in digging he had discovered, might arise some 
mischief to plague mankind. And some soldiers 
passing through the woods near to his cave at that 
instant, which proved to be a part of the troops 
of the Athenian captain Alcibiades, who upon 
some disgust taken against the senators of Athens 
(the Athenians were ever noted to be a thankless 
and ungrateful people, giving disgust to their 
generals and best friends) was marching at the 
head of the same triumphant army which he had 
formerly headed in their defence, to war against 
them: Timon, who liked their business we.J, be- 
stowed upon their captain the gold to pay his 
soldiers, requiring no other service from him, than 
that he should with his conquering army lay 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 5^79 

Athens level with the ground, and burn, slay, 
kill all her inhabitants; not sparing the old men 
for their white beards, for (he said) they were 
usurers, nor the young children for their seeming 
innocent smiles, for those (he said) would live, if 
they grew up, to be traitors; but to steel his eyes 
and ears against any sights or sounds that might 
awaken compassion; and not to let the cries of 
virgins, babes, or mothers, hinder him from making 
one universal massacre of the city, but to con- 
found them all in his conquest; and when he had 
conquered, he prayed that the gods would con- 
found him also, the conqueror: so thoroughly did 
Timon hate Athens, Athenians, and all mankind. 
While he lived in this forlorn state, leading a 
life more brutal than human, he was suddenly 
surprised one day with the appearance of a man 
standing in an admiring posture at the door of his 
cave. It was Flavius, the honest steward, whom 
love and zealous affection to his master had led 
to seek him out at his wretched dwelling, and to 
offer his services; and the first sight of his mas- 
ter, the once noble Timon, in that abject condi- 
tion, naked as he was born, living in the manner 
of a beast among beasts, looking like his own sad 
ruins and a monument of decay, so affected this 
good servant, that he stood speechless, wrapped 
up in horror, and confounded. And when he 
found utterance at last to his words, they were so 
choked with tears, that Timon had much ado to 
know him again, or to make out who it was that 
had come (so contrary to the experience he had 
had of mankind) to offer him service in extremity. 
And being in the form and shape of a man, he 
suspected him for a traitor, and his tears for false; 



•280 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

but the good servant by so many tokens confirmea 
the truth of his fidelity, and made it clear that 
nothing but love and zealous duty to his once 
dear master had brough' him there, that Timon 
was forced to confess that the world contained 
one honest man; yet, being in the shape and form 
of a man, he could not look upon his man's face 
without abhorrence, or hear words uttered from 
his man's lips without loathing; and this singly 
honest man was forced to depart, because he v^/as 
a man, and because, with a heart more gentle 
and compassionate than is usual to man, he bore 
man's detested form and outward feature. 

But greater visitants than a poor steward were 
about to interrupt the savage quiet of Timon 's 
solitude. For now the day was come when the 
ungrateful lords of Athens sorely repented the 
injustice which they had done to the noble Ti- 
mon. For Alcibiades, like an incensed wild boar, 
was raging at the walls of their city, and with 
his hot siege threatened to lay fair Athens in the 
dust. And nov/ the memory of lord Timon' s 
fo.rmer prowess and military conduct came fresh 
into their forgetful minds, for Timon had been 
their general in past times, and was a vaUant and 
expert soldier, who alone of all the Athenians 
was deemed able to cope with a besieging army 
such as then threatened them, or to drive back 
the furious approaches of Alcibiades. 

A deputation of the senators v»fas chosen in this 
emergency to wait upon Timon. To him they 
come in their extremity, to whom, when he was 
in extremity, they had shown but small regard; 
as if they presumed upon his gratitude whom they 
had disobliged, and had derived a claim to his 



TIMON or ATHENS. 281 

courtesy from their own most discourteous and 
unpiteous treatment. 

Now they earnestly beseech him, implore him 
with tears, to return and save that city, from 
which their ingratitude had so lately driven him; 
now they offer him riches, power, dignities satis- 
faction for past injuries, and public honours and 
the public love; their persons, lives, and fortunes, 
to J3e at his disposal, if he will but come back and 
save them. But Timon the naked, Timon the 
man-hater, was no longer lord Timon, the lord 
of bounty, the flower of valour, their defence in 
war, their ornament in peace. If Alcibiades 
killed his countrymen, Timon cared not. If he 
sacked fair Athens, and slew her old men and 
her infants, Timon would rejoice. So he told 
them; and that there was not a knife in the un- 
ruly camp which he did not prize above the 
reverendest throat in Athens. 

This was all the answer he vouchsafed to the 
weeping disappointed senators; only at parting, 
he bade them commend him to his countrymen, 
and tell them, that to ease them of their griefs 
and anxieties, and to prevent the consequences 
of fierce Alcibiades' wrath, there was yet a way 
left, which he would teach them, for he had yet 
so much affection left for his dear countrymen as 
to be willing to do them a kindness before his 
death. These words a little revived the senators, 
who hoped that his kindness for their city was 
returning. Then Timon told them that he had a 
tree, which grew near his cave, which he should 
shortly have occasion to cut down, and he invited 
all his friends in Athens, high or low, of what 
degree soever, who wished to shun affliction, to 
i>4* 



232 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

come and take a taste of his tree before he cut 
it down; meaning, that they might come and hang 
themselves on it, and escape .affliction that way 

And this was the last courtesy, of all his noblf 
bounties, which Timon showed to mankind, and 
this the last sight of him which his countrymen 
had: for not many days after, a poor soldier, pass 
ing by the seabeach, which was at a little distance 
from the woods which Timon frequented, fownd 
a tomb on the verge of the sea, with an inscrip- 
tion upon it, purporting that it was the grave of 
Timon the man-hater, who, " While he lived, did 
hate all living men, and dying wished a plague 
might consume all caitiffs left!" 

Whether he finished his life by violence, or 
whether mere distaste of life and the loathing he 
had for mankind brought Timon to his conclu- 
sion, was not clear, yet all men admired the fit- 
ness of his epitaph, and the consistency of his end; 
dying, as he had lived, a hater of mankind: and 
some there were who fancied a conceit in the 
very choice which he made of the seabeach for 
his place of burial, where the vast sea might weep 
for ever upon his grave, as in contempt of the 
transient and shallow tears o£ hypocritical and 
deceitful mankind. 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 

The two chief families in Verona were the 
rich Capulets and the Mountagues. There had 
been an old quarrel between these families, which 
was grown to such a height, and so deadly was 
the enmity between them, that it extended to the 
remotest kindred, to the followers and retainers 
of both sides, insomuch that a servant of the 
house of Mountague could not meet a servant of 
the house of Capulet, nor a Capulet encounter 
with a Mountague by chance, but fierce words 
and sometimes bloodshed ensued; and frequent 
were the brawls from such accidental meetings, 
which disturbed the happy quiet of Verona's 
streets. 

Old lord Capulet made a great supper, to which 
many fair ladies and many noble guests were 
invited. All the admired beauties of Verona were 
present, and all comers were made welcome if 
they were not of the house of Mountague. At 
this feast of Capulets, Rosaline, beloved of Romeo, 
son to the old lord Mountague, was present; and 
though it was dangerous for a Mountague to be 
seen in this assembly, yet Benvolio, a friend of 
Romeo, persuaded the young lord to go to this 
assembly, in the disguise of a mask, that he 
might see his Rosaline, and, seeing her, com- 
pare her with some choice beauties of Verona, 
who (he said) would make him think his swan a 
crow. Romeo had smal. faith in Benvolio' s words; 
nevertheless, for the love of Rosaline, he was 



284 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

persuaded to go. For Eomeo was a sincere and 
passionate lover, and one that lost his sleep for 
love, and fled society to be alone, thinking on 
Rosaline, who disdained him, and never requited 
iiis love with the least show of courtesy or affec- 
tion; and Benvolio wished to cure his friend of 
this love by showing him diversity of ladies and 
company. To this feast of Capulets then young 
Romeo with Benvolio and their friend Mercutio 
went masked. Old Capulet bid them welcome, 
and told them that lad "s w^ho had their toes un- 
plagued^with corns wou^J dance with them. And 
throld man was light-hearted and merry, and 
said that he had worn a mask when he was 
young, and could have told a whispering tale in 
a fair lady's ear. And they fell to dancing, and 
Romeo was suddenly struck with the exceeding 
beauty of a lady who danced there, who seemed 
to him to teach the torches to burn bright, and 
her beauty to show by night like a rich jewel 
worn by a blackamoor: beauty too rich for use, 
too dear for earth! like a snowy dove trooping 
with crov/s (he said,) so richly did her beauty 
and perfections shine above the ladies her com- 
panions. While he uttered these praises, he was 
overheard by Tybalt, a nephew of lord Capulet, 
who knew him by his voice to be Romeo. And 
this Tybalt, being of a fiery and passionate tem- 
per, could not endure that a Mountague should 
come under cover of a mask, to fleer and scorn 
(as he said) at their solemnities. And he stormed 
and raged exceedingly, and would have struck 
young Romeo dead. But his uncle, the old lord 
Capulet, would not suffer bin- to do any injury at 
that time, both out of respect to his guests, and 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 285 

because Romeo had borne himself Kke a geiitJe- 
man, and all tongues in Verona bragged of him 
to be a virtuous and well governed youth. Ty- 
balt, forced to be patient against his will, restrain- 
ed himself, but swore that this vile Mountague 
should at another time dearl}^ pay for his intrusion. 
The dancing being done, Romeo watched the 
place where the lady stood; and under favour 
of his masking habit, which might seem to ex- 
cuse in part the liberty, he presumed in the gen- 
tlest manner to take her by her hand, calling it a 
shrine, which if he profaned by touching it, he 
was a blushing pilgrim, and would kiss it for 
atonement. " Good pilgrim," answered the lady, 
'' your devotion shows by far too mannerly and 
too courtly: saints have hands, which pilgrims 
may touch, but kiss not." " Have not saints hps, 
and pilgrims too?" said Romeo. "Ay," said the 
lady, " lips which they must use in prayer." " O 
then, my dear saint," said Romeo: "hear my 
prayer and grant it, lest I despair." In such hke 
allusions and loving conceits they were engaged, 
when the lady was called away to her motiier. 
And Romeo inquiring who her mother was, dis- 
covered that the lady Vs^hose peerless beauty he 
was so much struck with, was .young Juliet, 
daughter and heir to the lord Capulet, the great 
enemy of the Mountagues; and that he had un- 
knowingly engaged his heart to his foe. This 
troubled him, but it could not dissuade him from 
loving. As little rest had Juliet, when she found 
that the gentleman that she had been talking with 
was Romeo and a Mountague, for she had been 
suddenly smit with the same hasty and inconsi- 
derate passion for Romeo, which he had conceiv- 



%Ob TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

ed for her; and a prodigious birth of love it seem 
ed to her, that she must love her enemy, and that 
her affections should settle there, where family 
considerations should induce her chiefly to hate. 
' It being midnight, Romeo with his companions 
departed; but they soon missed him, for unable 
to stay away from the house where he had left 
his heart, he leaped the wall of an orchard which 
was at the back of Juliet's house. Here he had 
not been long, ruminating on his new love, when 
Juliet appeared above at a window, through which 
her exceeding beauty seemed to break like the 
light of the sun in the east; and the moon, which 
shone in the orchard with a faint light, appeared 
to Romeo as if sick and pale with grief at the 
superior lustre of this new sun. And she lean- 
ing her hand upon her cheek, he passionately 
wished himself a glove upon that hand, that he 
might touch her cheek. She all this while, thinking 
herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and exclaimed, 
"Ah me!" Romeo, enraptured to hear her speak, 
said softly, and unheard by her, " speak again, 
bright angel, for such you appear, being over my 
head, like a winged messenger from heaven whom 
mortals fall back to gaze upon." She, unconscious 
of being overheard, and full of the new passion 
which that night's adventure had given birth to, 
called upon her lover by name (whom she sup- 
posed absent:) " O Romeo, Romeo!" said ghe, 
''wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father > 
and refuse thy name, for my sake; or if thou wilt 
not, be but mj sworn lovft, and I no longer will 
be a Capulet." Romeo, having this encourage- 
ment, would fain have spoken, but he was desi- 
rous of hearing more; and the lady continued 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 287 

her passionate discourse with herself (as she 
thought,) still chiding Romeo for being Romeo 
and a Mountague, and wishing him some other 
name, or that he would put away that hated name, 
and for that name, which was no part of himself, 
he should take all herself. At this loving word 
Romeo could no longer refrain, but taking up the 
dialogue as if her words had been addressed to 
him personally, and not merely in fancy, he bade 
her call him Love, or by whatever other name 
she pleased, for he was no longer Romeo, if that 
name was displeasing to her. Juliet, alarmed to 
hear a man's voice in the garden, did not at first 
know who it was, that by favour of the night and 
darkness had thus stumbled upon the discovery 
of her secret; but when he spoke again, though 
her ears had not yet drunk a hundred words of 
that tongue's uttering, yet so nice is a lover's 
healing, that she immediately knew him to be 
young Romeo, and she expostulated with him on 
the danger to which he had exposed himself by 
climbing the orchard walls, for if any of her kins- 
men should find him there, it would be death to 
him, being a Mountague. "Alack," said Romeo, 
"there is m-ore peril in your eye, than in twenty 
of their swords. Do you but look kind upon me, 
lady, and I am proof against their enmity. Better 
my life should be ended by their hate, than that 
hated life should be prolonged, to live without 
your love." " How came you into this place,' 
said JuUet, "and by whose direction?" "Love 
directed me," answered Romeo: "I am no pilot, 
yet w^ert thou as far apart from me, as that vast 
shore which is washed with the farthest sea, I 
should adventure for such merchandize." A 



288 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

crimson blush came over Juliet's face, yet unseen 
by S-om.eo by reason of the night, when she re- 
flected upon the discovery which she had made, 
yet not meaning to make it, of her love to Romeo^ 
She would fain have recalled her words, but that 
was impossible: fain would she have stood upon 
form, and have kept her lover at a distance, as 
the custom of discreet ladies is, to frown and be 
perverse, and give their suitors harsh denials at 
first; to stand oiF, and affect a coyness or indif- 
ference, where they most love, that their lovers 
may not think them too lightly or too easily won: 
for the difficulty of attainment increases the value 
of the object. But there was no room in her case 
for denials, or puttings off, or any of the cus- 
tomary arts of delay and protracted courtship. 
Romeo had heard from her own tongue, when 
she did not dream that he was near her, a con- 
fession of her love. So with an honest frankness, 
which the novelty of her situation excused, she 
confirmed the truth of what he had before heard, 
and addressing him by the name of fair Moun- 
iague (love can sweeten a sour name,) she begged 
him not to impute her easy yielding to levity or 
an unworthy mind, but that he must lay the fault, 
of it (if it were a fault) upon the accident of the 
night which had so strangely discovered her 
thoughts. And she added, that though her beha- 
viour to him might not be sufficiently prudent, 
measured by the custom of her sex, yet that she 
would prove more true than many whose pru- 
dence was dissembling, and their modesty arti- 
ficial cunning. 

Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to 
witness, that nothing was farther from his thoughts 



ROMEO AJND JULIET. ^9 

than to impute a shadow of dishonour to such an 
honoured lady, when she stopped him, begging 
him not to swear: for although she joyed in him, 
yet she had no joy of that night's contract; it 
was too rash, too unadvised, too sudden. But he 
being urgent with her to exchange a vow of love 
v^ath him that night, she said that she already had 
given him hers before he requested it; meaning, 
when he overheard her confession; but she would 
retract what she then bestowed, for the pleasure 
of giving it again, for her bounty was as infinite 
as the sea, and her love as deep. From this 
loving conference she was called away by her 
nurse, who slept with her, and thought it time 
for her to be in bed, for it was near to daybreak; 
but hastily returning, she said three or four words 
m.ore to Romeo, the purport of which was, that 
if his love was indeed honourable, and his pur- 
pose marriage, she would send a messenger to 
him to-morrow, to appoint a time for their mar- 
riage, when she would lay all her fortunes at his 
feet, and follow him as her lord through the world. 
While they were settling this point, Juhet was 
repeatedly called for by her nurse, and went in 
and returned, and went and returned again, for 
she seemed as jealous of Romeo going from her, 
as a young girl of her bird, which she will let 
hop a httle from her hand, and pluck it back with 
a silken thread; and Romeo was as loth to part 
as she: for the sweetest music to lovers is the 
sound of each other's tongues at night. But at 
last they parted, wishing mutually sweet sleep 
and rest for that night. 

The day was breaking when they p-arted, and 
Romeo, who was too full of thoughts of his mis' 
25 



•290 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

tress and that blessed meeting to allow liim to 
sleep, instead of going home, bent his course to a 
monastery hard by, to find friar Lav/rence. The 
good friar was already up at his devotions, but 
seeing young Romeo abroad so early, he conjec- 
tured rightly that he had not been abed that night, 
but that some distemper of youthful affection had 
kept him waking. He was right in imputing the 
cause of Romeo's wakefulness to love, but he 
made a wrong guess at the object, for he thought 
that his love for Rosaline had kept him waking. 
But when Romeo revealed his new passion for 
Juliet, and requested the assistance of the friar 
to miarry them that day, the holy man lifted up 
his eyes and hands in a sort of wonder at the 
sudden change in Romeo's affections, for he had 
been privy to all Romeo's love for Rosaline, and 
his many complaints of her disdain; and he said, 
that young men's love lay not truly in their 
hearts, but in their eyes. But Romeo replying 
that he himself had often chidden him for doting 
on Rosaline, who could not love him again, 
whereas Juliet both loved and was beloved by 
him, the friar assented in some measure to his 
reasons; and thinking that a matrimonial alliance 
between young Juliet and Romeo might happily 
be the means of making up the long breach be- 
tween the Capulets and the Mountagues; which 
no one more lamented than this good friar, who 
was a friend to both the famihes, and had often 
interposed his mediation to make up the quarrel 
without effect; partly moved by policy, and partly 
by his fondness for young Romeo, to whom he 
could deny nothing, the old man consented to 
join their hands in marriage. ^ 



ROMEO AhD JULIET. 29J 

Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, 
who knew his intent from a messenger which shf, 
had dispatched according to promise, did not fail 
to be early at the cell of friar Lawrence, where 
their hands were joined in holy marriage; the 
good friar praying the heavens to smile upon that 
act, and in the union of this young Mountague 
and young Capulet to bury the old strife and long 
dissensions of their families. 

The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened 
home, where she staid impatient for the coming 
of night, at which time Romeo promised to come 
and meet her in the orchard, where they had 
met the night before; and the time between 
seemed as tedious to her, as the night before 
some great festival seems to an impatient child, 
that has got new fmery which it may not put on 
till the morning. 

That same day about noon, Romeo's friends^ 
Benvoho and Mercutio, walking through the 
streets of Verona, were met by a party of the 
Capulets with the impetuous Tybalt at their head, 
This was the same angry Tybalt who would have 
fought with Romeo at old lord Capulet' s feast. 
He seeing Mercutio, accused him bluntly of as- 
sociating vvith Romeo, a Mountague. Mercutio, 
who had as much fire and youthful blood in him 
as Tybalt, replied to this accusation with some 
sharpness; and in spite of all Benvoho could say 
to moderate their wrath, a quarrel was beginning, 
when Romeo himself passing that way, the fierce 
Tybalt turned from Mercutio to Romeo, and gave 
him the disgraceful appellation of villain. Romeo 
wished to avoid a qiiarrel v\dth Tybalt above all 
men, because he was the kinsman of Juliet, a ad 



292 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

much beloved by her; besides, this young Moun- 
tague had never thoroughly entered into the 
family quarrel, being by nature wise and gentle, 
and the name of a Capulet, which was his dear 
lady's name, was now rather a charm to allay it- 
sentment, than a watchword to excite fury. So 
he tried to reason with Tybalt, whom he saluted 
mildly by the name of good Capulet, as if he, 
though a Mountague, had some secret pleasure 
in uttering that name: but Tybalt, who hated all 
Mountagues as he hated heU, would hear no rea- 
son, but drew his weapon; and Mercutio, who 
knew not of Romeo's secret motive for desiring 
peace with Tybalt, but looked upon his present 
forbearance as a sort of calm dishonourable sub- 
mission, with many disdainful words provoked 
Tybalt to the prosecution of his first quarrel with 
him; and Tybalt and Mercutio fought, till Mer- 
cutio fell, receiving his death's wound while 
Romeo and Benvoleo were vainly endeavouring 
to part the combatants. Mercutio being dead, 
Romeo kept his temper no longer, but returned 
the scornful appellation of villain which Tybalt 
had given him; and they fought till Tybalt was 
slain by Romeo. This deadly broil falling out in 
the midst of Verona at noonday, the news of it 
quickly brought a crowd of citizens to the spot, and 
among them the old lords Capulet and Mountague 
with their wives; and soon after arrived the prince 
himself, who being related to Mercutio, whom 
Tybalt had slain, and having had the peace of 
his government often disturbed by these brawls 
of Mountagues and Capulets, came determined 
to put the law in strictest force against those who 
should be found to be offenders. Benvolio, who 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 293 

had been eyewitness to the fray, was commanded 
by the prince to relate the origin of it, which he 
did, keeping as near to the truth as he could 
without injury to Romeo, softening and excusing 
the part which his friends took in it. Lady Capu- 
let, whose extreme grief for the loss of her kins- 
man Tybalt made her keep no bounds in her re- 
venge, exhorted the prince to do strict justice 
upon his murderer, and to pay no attention to 
Benvolio's representation, who being Romeo's 
friend, and a Mountague, spoke partially. Thus 
she pleaded against her new son-in-law, but she 
knew not yet that he was her son-in-law and Ju- 
liet's husband. On the other hand was to be seen 
lady Mountague pleading for her child's life, and 
arguing with some justice that Romeo had done 
nothing worthy of punishment in taking the life of 
Tybalt, which was already forfeited to the law by 
his having slain Mercutio. The prince, unmoved 
by the passionate exclamations of these women, 
on a careful examination of the facts, pronounced 
his sentence, and by that sentence Romeo was 
banished from Verona. 

Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been 
but a few hours a bride, and now by this decree 
seemed everlastingly divorced! When the tidings 
reached her, she at first gave way to rage against 
Romeo, who had slain her dear cousin: sh-e called 
him a beautiful tyrant, a fiend angelical, a raven- 
ous dove, a lamb with a wolfs nature, a sei-pent- 
heart hid with a flowering face, and other like 
contradictory names, which denoted the struggles 
in her mind between her love and her resent- 
ment: but in the end love got the mastery, and 
th-e tears which she shed for grief that Romeo 
25* . 



294 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

had slain her cousin, turned to drops of joy that 
her husband lived whom Tybalt would have slain^ 
Then came fresh tears, and they were altogether of 
grief for Romeo's banishment. That word v/as more 
terrible to her than the death of many Tybalts. ■ — 

Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in friar 
Lawrence's cell, where he was first made ac- 
quainted with the prince's sentence, which seem- 
ed to him far more terrible than death. To him 
it appeared there was no world out of Verona's 
walls, no living out of the sight of Juliet. Hea- 
ven was there where Juliet lived, and all be- 
yond was purgatory, torture, hell. The good 
friar would have applied the consolation of phi- 
losophy to his griefs; but this frantic young man 
would hear of none, but like a madman he tore 
his hair, and threw himself all along upon the 
ground, as he said, to take the measure of his 
grave. From this unseemly state he was roused 
by a message from his dear lady, which a little 
revived him, and then the friar took the advan- 
tage to expostulate with him on the unmanly 
weakness which he had shown. He had slain 
Tybalt, but would he also slay himself, slay hh 
dear lady who lived but in his life? The noble 
form of man, he said, was but a shape of wax, 
when it wanted the courage which should keep 
it firm. The law had been lenient to him, that 
instead of death which he had incurred, had pro- 
nounced by the prince's mouth only banishment 
He had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would have slaiii 
him: there was a sort of happiness in that. Juliet 
was alive, and (beyond all hope) had become his 
dear wife, therein he was most happy. All these 
blessings, as the friar made them out to be, did 



ROMEO A^D JULIET. 595 

Romeo put from him like a sullen misbehaved 
wench. And the friar bade him beware, for such 
as despaired (he said; died miserable. Then 
when Romeo was a little calmed, he counselled 
him that he should go that night and secretly 
take his leave of Juliet, and thence proceed 
straightways to Mantua, at which place he should 
sojourn, till the friar found a fit occasion to pub- 
hsh his marriage, which might be a joyful means 
of reconciling their families; and then he did not 
doubt but the prince would be moved to pardon 
him, and he would return with tvv^enty times 
more joy than he went forth with grief. Romeo 
was convinced by these wise counsels of th'^ 
friar, and took his leave to go and seek his lad}^ 
purposing to stay with her that night, and by day- 
break pursue his journey alone to Mantua; to 
which place the good friar promised to send him 
letters from time to ti^ie, acquainting him with 
the state of affairs at home. 

That night Romeo passed with his dear wife, 
gaining secret admission to her chamber, from the 
orchard in wdiich he had heard her confession of 
love the night before. That had been a night of 
unmixed joy and rapture; but the pleasures of 
this night, and the delight which these lovers 
took in each other's society, were sadly allayed 
with the prospect of parting, and the fatal adven- 
tures of the past day. The unwelcome daybreak 
seemed to come too soon, and when Juliet heard 
the morning song of the lark, she would fain have 
persuaded herself that it was the nightingale, 
which sings by night; but it was too truly the 
lark which sung, and a discordant and unpleasing 
note it seemed to her, and the streaks of day in 



298 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the east too certainly pointed out that it was time 
for these lovers to part. Romeo took his leave 
of his dear wife with a heavy heart, promising 
to write to her from Mantua every hour in the 
day, and when he had descended from her cham- 
ber-window, as he stood below her on the ground, 
in that sad foreboding state of mind, in which 
slie was, he appeared to her eyes as one dead in 
the bottom of a tomb. Romeo's mind misgave 
him in like manner; but now he was forced 
hastily to depart, for it was death for him to be 
found within the walls of Verona after daybreak. 

This was but the beginning of the tragedy of 
this pail' of star-cros-sed lovers. Romeo had not 
been gone many days, before the old lord Capulet 
proposed a match for Juliet. The husband he 
had chosen for her, not dreaming that she was 
married already, was count Paris, a gallant, young, 
and noble gentleman, no^ unworthy suitor to the 
young Juliet, if she had never seen Romeo. 

The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity at 
her father's offer. She pleaded her youth unsuit- 
able to marriage, the recent death of Tybalt, which 
had left her spirits too weak to meet a husband 
with any face of joy, and how indecorous it would 
show for the family of the Capulets to be celebra- 
ting a nuptial-feast, w^hen his funeral solemnities 
were hardly over: she pleaded every reason 
against the match, but the true one, namely, that 
she was married already. But lord Capulet was 
deaf to all her excuses, and in a peremptory man- 
ner ordered her to get ready, for by the following 
Thursday she should be married to Paris: and 
having found her a husband rich, young, and 
noble, such as the proudest maid in Verona might 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 297 

joyfully accept, he could not bear that out of an 
affected coyness, as he construed her denial, she 
should oppose obstacles to her own good fortune. 

In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly 
friar, always her counsellor in distress, and he 
asking her if she had resolution to undertake a 
desperate remedy, and she answering that she 
would go into the grave alive, rather than marry 
Paris, her own dear husband living; he directed 
her to go home, and appear merry, and give her 
consent to marry Paris, according to her father's 
desire, and on the next night, which was the night 
before the marriage, to drink off the contents of 
a*phial which he then gave her, the effect of 
which would be, that for two-and-forty hours after 
drinking it she should appear cold and lifeless; 
that when the bridegroom came to fetch her in 
the morning, he would find her to appearance 
dead; that then she would be borne, as the man- 
ner in that country was, uncovered, on a bier, to 
be buried in the family vault; that if she could 
put off womanish fear, and consent to this terrible 
trial, in forty-two hours after swallowing the 
liquid (such was its certain operation) she would 
be sure to awake, as from a dream; and before 
she should awake, he would let her husband know 
their drift, and he should come in the night, and 
bear her thence to Mantua. Love, and the dread 
of marrying Paris, gave young Juliet strength to 
undertake this horrible adventure; and she took 
the phial of the friar, promising to observe his 
directions. 

Going from the monastery, she met the young 
count Paris, and, modestly dissembling, promised 
to become his bride. This was joyful news to the 



298 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

lord Capiilet and his wife. It seemed to put youth 
into the old man; and Juhet, who had displeased 
him exceedingly by her refusal of the count, was 
his darling again, now she promised to be obe- 
dient. All things in the house were in a bustle 
against the approaching nuptials. No cost vv^as 
spared to prepare such festival rejoicings, as Ve- 
rona had never before witnessed. 

On the YVednesday night Juliet drank off the 
potion. She had many misgivings, lest the friar, 
to avoid the blame which might be imputed to 
him for marrying her to Uomeo, had given her 
poison; but then he was alv/ays known for a holy 
man: then lest she should awake before the tiine 
that E,omeo was to come for her; whether the 
terror of the place, a vault full of dead Capulets' 
bones, and where Tybalt, all bloody, lay festering 
in his shroud, would not be enough to drive her 
distracted: again she thouo-ht of all the stories 
she had heard of spirits haunting the places where 
their bodies were bestowed. But then her love 
for Romeo, and her aversion for Paris, returned, 
and she desperately swallowed the draught, and 
became insensible. 

When young Paris came early in the morning 
with music, to awaken his bride, instead of a liv- 
ing Juliet, her chamber presented the dreary spec- 
tacle of a lifeless corse^ What death to his hopes! 
What confusion then reigned through the whole 
house! Poor Paris lamenting his bride, whom most 
detestable death had beguiled him of, had div reed 
from him even before their hands were joined. 
But still more piteous it was to hear the mourn- 
ings of the old lord and lady Capulet, who having 
but this one, one poor loving child to rejoice and 



ROMEO AND JULIET. ^99 

solace in, cruel death had snatched her from tlieir 
siglit, just as these careful parents were on the 
point of seeing her advanced (as they thought) 
by a promising and advantageous match. Now 
all things that were ordained for the festival, were 
turned from their properties to do the office of a 
black funeral. The wedding cheer served for a 
sad burial feast, the bridal hymns were changed 
to sullen dirges, the sprightly instruments to me- 
lancholy bells and the flowers that should have 
been strewed in the bride's path, now served but 
to strew her corse. Now instead of a priest to 
marry her, a priest was needed to bury her; and 
she was borne to church indeed, not to augment 
the cheerful hopes of the living, but to swell the 
dreary numbers of the dead. 

Bad news, v/hich always travels faster than 
good, now brought the dismal story of his Juliet's 
death to Romeo at Mantua, before the messenger 
could arrive, who was sent from friar Lawrence 
to apprize him that these were mock funerals 
only, and but the shadow and representation of 
death, and that his dear lady lay in the tomb but 
for a short while, expecting when Romeo should 
come to release her from that dreary mansion. 
Just before, Romeo had been unusually joyful 
and light-hearted. He had dreamed in the night 
that he was dead (a strange dream, that gave a 
dead man leave to think,) and that his lady came 
and found him dead, and breathed such life with 
kisses in his lips, that he revived, and was an 
emperor! And now that a messenger came from 
Verona, he thought surely it was to confirm some 
good new^s which his dreams had presaged. But 
when the contrary to this flattering vision appear- 



300 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

ed, and that it was his lady who was dead in 
truth, whom he could not revive by any kisses, 
he ordered horses to be got ready, for he deter- 
mined that night to visit Verona, and to see his 
lady in her tomb. And as mischief is swift to 
enter into the thoughts of desperate men, he 
called to mind a poor apothecary, whose shop in 
Mantua he had lately passed, and from the beg- 
garly appearance of the man, who seemed famish- 
ed, and the wretched show in his shop of empty 
boxes ranged on dirty shelves, and other tokens 
of extreme wretchedness, he had said at the time 
(perhaps having some misgivings that his own 
disastrous life might jiaply meet with a conclusion 
so desperate,) "If a man were to need poison, 
which by the law of Mantua it is death to sell, 
here lives a poor wretch who would sell it him." 
These words of his now came into his mind, and 
he sought out the apothecary, who after some 
pretended scruples, Romeo offering him gold which 
his poverty could not resist, sold him a poison, 
which, if he swallowed, he told him, if he had 
the strength of twenty men, would quickly dis- 
patch him. 

With this poison he set out for Verona, to have 
a sight of his dear lady in her tomb, meaning, 
when he had satisfied his sight, to swallow the 
poison, and be buried by her side. He reached 
Verona at midnight, and found the church-yard, 
in the midst of which was situated the ancient 
tomb of the Capulets. He had provided a light, 
and a spade, and wrenching iron, and was pro- 
ceeding to break open the monument, when he 
was interrupted by a voice, which by the name 
of vile Mountague, bade him desist from his ua^ 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 30 i 

lawful business. It was the young count Paris, 
who had come to the tomb of Juliet at that un- 
seasonable time of night, to strew flowers, and to 
weep over the grave of her that should have been 
his bride. He knew not what an interest Romeo 
had in the dead, but knowing him to be a Moun- 
tague, and (as he supposed) a sworn foe to all the 
Capulets, he judged that he was come by night 
b do som-e villanous shame to the dead bodies; 
therefore in an angry tone he bade him desist; 
and as a criminal, condemned by the laws of 
Verona to die if he were found within the walls 
of the city, he would have apprehended him. 
Romeo urged Paris to leave him, and warned him 
by the fate of Tybalt, who lay buried there, not 
to provoke his anger, or draw down another sin 
upon his head, by forcing him to kill him. But 
the count in scorn refused his warning, and laid 
hands on him as a felon, which Romeo resisting, 
they fought, and Paris fell. When Romeo, by 
the help of a light, came to see who it was that 
he had slain, that it was Paris, who (he learned 
in his way from Mantua) should have married 
Juliet, he took the dead youth by the hand, as 
one whom misfortune had made a companion, 
and said that he would bury him in a triumphal 
grave, meaning in Juliet's graA^e, which he now 
opened: and there lay his lady, as one whom 
death had no power upon to change a feature or 
complexion in her matchless beauty, or as if 
Death were amorous, and the lean abhorred mon- 
ster kept her there for his delight; for she lay yet 
fresh and blooming, as she had fallen to sleep 
when she swallowed that benumbing potion: and 
near her lay Tybalt in his bloody shroud, whom 
28 



302 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Romeo seeing, begged pardon of his lifeless corse, 
and for Juliet's sake called him cousin, and said 
that he was about to do him a favour by putting 
his enemy to death. Here Romeo took his last 
leave of his lady's lips, kissing them; and here 
he shook the burden of his cross stars from his 
weary body, swallowing that poison which the 
apothecary had sold him, whose operation was 
fatal and real, not like that dissembling potion 
which Juliet had swallowed, the effect of which 
was now nearly expiring, and she about to awake 
to complain that Romeo had not kept his time, or 
that he had come too soon. 

For now the hour was arrived at which the 
friar had promised that she should awake; and 
he, having learned that his letters which he had 
sent to Mantua, by some unlucky detention of 
the messenger, had never reached Romeo, came 
himself, provided with a pickaxe and lantern, to 
deliver the lady from her confinement; but he 
was surprised to find a light already burning in 
the Capulet's monument, and to see swords and 
blood near it, and Romeo and Paris lying breath- 
less by the monument. 

Before he could entertain a conjecture, to ima- 
gine how these fatal accidents had fallen out, 
Juliet awoke out of her trance, and seeing the 
friar near her, she remembered the place where 
she was, and the occasion of her being there, and 
asked for Romeo: but the friar, hearing a noise, 
bade her come out of that place of death, and of 
unnatural sleep, for a greater power than they 
could contradict had thwarted their intents; and 
being frighted by the noise of people coming, he 
Sed; but when Juliet saw the cup closed in her 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 303 

true love's hands, she guessed that poison had 
been the cause of his end, and she would have 
swallowed the dregs if any had been left, and 
she kissed his still warm lips to try if any poison 
yet did hang upon them: then hearing a nearer 
noise of peoj)le coming, she quickly unsheathed a 
dagger which she wore, and stabbing herself, died 
by her true Romeo's side. 

The watch by this time had come up to the 
place. A page belonging to count Paris, who 
had witnessed the fight between his master and 
Romeo, had given the alarm, which had spread 
among the citizens, who went up and down the 
streets of Verona confusedly, exclaiming, A Paris, 
a Romeo, a Juliet, as the rumour had imperfectly 
reached them, till the uproar brought lord Moun- 
tague and lord Capulet out of their beds, with 
the prince, to inquire into the causes of the dis- 
turbance. The friar had been apprehended by 
some of the watch; coming from the churchyard, 
trembling, sighing, and weeping, in a suspicious 
manner. A great multitude being assemibled at 
the Capulets' monument, the friar was demanded 
by the prince to deliver what he knew of these 
strange and disastrous accidents. 

And there, in the presence of the old lords 
Mountague and Capulet, he faithfully related the 
story of their children's fatal love, the part he 
took in promoting their marriage, in the hope in 
that union to end the long quarrels between their 
families: how Romeo, there dead, Vv^as husband 
to Juliet; and Juliet, there dead, was Romeo's 
faithful wife: how before he could find a fit op- 
portunity to divulge their marriage, another match 
was projected for Juliet, who to avoid the crime 



304 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

of a second marriage swallowed the sleeping 
draught (as he advised,) and all thought her dead: 
how meantime he wrote to Romeo, to come and 
take her thence when the force of the potion 
should cease, and by what unfortunate miscar- 
riage of the messenger the letters never reached 
Romeo: further than this the friar could not fol- 
low the story, nor knew more than that coming 
himself to deliver Juliet from that place of death, 
he found the count Paris and Romeo slain. The 
remainder of the transactions was supplied by the 
narration of the page who had seen Paris and 
Romeo fight, and by the servant who came with 
Romeo from Verona, to whom this faithful lover 
had given letters to be delivered to his father in 
the event of his death, which made good the 
friar's words, confessing his marriage with Juliet, 
imploring the forgiveness of his parents, acknow- 
ledging the buying of the poison of the poor 
apothecary, and Ivs intent in coming to the monu- 
ment, to die, and lie with Juliet. Ail these cir- 
cumstances agreed together to clear the friar from 
any hand he could be supposed to have had in 
these complicated slaughters, further than as the 
unintended consequences of his own well meant, 
yet too artificial and subtle contrivances. 

And the prince, turning to these old lords, 
Mountague and Capulet, rebuked them for their 
brutal and irrational enmities, and showed them 
what a scourge heaven had laid upon such of- 
fences, that it had found means even through the 
love of their children to punish their unnatural 
hate. And these old rivals, no longer enemies, 
agreed to bury their long strife in their children's 
graves; and lord Capulet requested lord Moun- 



^-ri 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 305 

tague to give him his hand, casing him by the 
name oi brother, as if in acknowledgment of the 
union of their famihes by the marriage of the 
young Capulet and Mountague; and saying that 
Irod iSlnuntague's hand (in token of reconcile- 
ment) was all he demanded for his daughter's 
jointure: but lord Mountague said he would give 
hira more, for he would raise her statue of pure 
gold, that while Verona kept its name, no figure 
should be so esteemed for its richness and work- 
maachip as that of the true and faithful Juhet. 
Aii-d lord Capulet in return said, that he would 
raise another statue to Romeo. So did these poor 
old lords, when it was too late, strive to outgo 
each other in mutual courtesies: while so deadly 
had been their rage and enmity in past times, 
that nothing but the fearful overthrow of their 
children (poor sacrifices to their quarrels and dis- 
sensions) could remove the rooted hates and jea- 
lousies of the noble famine's. 



26^ 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

Gertrude, queen of Denmark, becoming a wi- 
dow by the sudden death of king Hamlet, in less 
than two months after his death married his brother 
Claudius, which was noted by all people at the 
time for a strange act of indiscretion, or unfeel- 
ingness, or worse: for this Claudius did no ways 
resemble her late husband in the qualities of his 
person or his mind, but was as contemptible in 
outward appearance, as he was base and unworthy 
in disposition; and suspicions did not fail to arise 
in the minds of some, that he had privately made 
away with his brother, the late king, with the 
view of marrying his widow, and ascending the 
throne of Denmark, to the exclusion of young 
Hamlet, the son of the buried king, and lawful 
successor to the throne. 

But upon no one did this unadvised action of 
the queen make such impression as upon this 
young prince, who loved and venerated the me- 
mory of his dead father almost to idolatry, and 
being of a nice sense of honour, and a most ex- 
quisite practiser of propriety himself, did sorely 
take to heart this unworthy conduct of his mother 
Gertrude: insomuch that, between grief fur his 
father's death and shame for his mother's mar- 
riage, this young prince was overclouded with a 
deep melancholy, and lost all his mirth and all 
his good looks; all his customary pleasure in books 
forsook him, his princely exercises and sports, 
proper to his youth, were no longer acceptable; 



HAMLET. 307 

lie grew weary of the world, which seemed to 
him an unweeded garden, where all the whole- 
some floAvers were choked up, and nothing but 
weeds could thrive. Not that the prospect of ex- 
clusion from the throne, his lawful inheritance, 
weighed so much upon his spirits, though that to 
a young and high-minded prince was a bitter 
wound and a sore indignity; but what so galled 
him, and took away all his cheerful spirits, was, 
that his mother had shown herself so forgetful to 
his father's memory: and such a father! who had 
been to her so Icving and so gentle a husband! and 
then she always appeared as loving and obedient 
a wife to him, and would hang upon him as if her 
affection grew to him: and now within two months, 
or as it seemed to young Hamlet, less than two 
months, she had married again, married his un- 
cle, her dead husband's brother, in itself a highly 
improper and unlawful marriage, from the near- 
ness of relationship, but made much more so by 
the indecent haste with which it was concluded, 
and the unkingly character of the m.an whom she 
had chosen to be the partner of her throne and 
bed. This it was, which more than the loss often 
kingdoms, dashed the spirits, and brought a cloud 
over the mind of this honourable young prince. 
In vain was all that his mother Gertrude or the 
king could do or contrive to divert him; he still 
appeared in court in a suit of deep black, as 
mourning for the king his father's death, which 
mode of dress he had never laid aside, not even 
in compliment to his mother upon the day she 
was married, nor could he be brought to join in 
any of the festivities or rejoicings of that (as ap- 
peared to him) disgraceful day. 



308 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

What mostly troubled him was an uncertainty 
about the manner of his father's death. It was 
given out by Claudius, that a serpent had stung 
him: but young Hamlet had shrewd suspicions 
that Claudius himself was the serpent; in plain 
English, that he had murdered him for his crown, 
and that the serpent who stung his father did now 
sit on his throne.. 

How far he was right in this conjecture, and 
what he ought to think of his mother, how far 
she was privy to this murder, and whether by her 
consent or knowledge, or without, it came to pass, 
were the doubts which continually harassed and 
distracted him. 

A rumour had reached the ear of young Ham- 
let, that an apparition, exactly resembling the 
dead king his father, had been seen by the sol- 
diers upon watch, on the platform before the pa- 
lace at midnight, for two or three nights succes- 
sively. The figure came constantly clad in the 
same suit of armour, from head to foot, which the 
dead king was known to have worn: and they 
who saw it (Hamlet's bosom-friend Horatio was 
one) agreed in their testimony as to the time and 
manner of its appearance: that it came just as 
the clock struck twelve; that it looked pale, with 
a face more of sorrow than of anger;- that its 
beard was grisly, and the colour a sable silve7'ed, 
as they had seen it in his lifetime: that it made 
no answer when they spoke to it, yet once they 
thought it lifted up its head, and addressed itself 
to motion, as if it were about to speak; but in that 
moment the morning cock crew, and it shrunk 
in haste away, and vanished out of their sight. 

The young prince strangely amazed at their 



HAMLET. 309 

relation, which was too consistent and agreeing 
with itself to disbelieve, concluded that it was 
his father's ghost which they had seen, and de- 
termined to take his watch with the soldiers that 
night, that he might have a chance of seeing it: 
for he reasoned with himself, that such an ap- 
pearance did not come for nothing, but that the 
ghost had something to impart, and though it had 
been silent hitherto, yet it would speak to him. 
And he waited ^dth impatience for the coming 
of night. 

When night came he took his stand with Ho- 
ratio, and Marcellus, one of the guard, upon the 
platform, where this apparition was accustomed 
to walk: and it being a cold night, and the air 
unusually raw and nipping, Hamlet and Horatio 
and theii- companion fell into some talk about the 
coldness of the night, which was suddenly broken 
off by Horatio announcing that the ghost was 
coming. 

At the sight of his father's spirit, Hamlet was 
struck with a sudden surprise and fear. He at 
first called upon the angels and heavenly minis- 
ters to defend them, for he knew not whether it 
were a good spirit or bad; whether it came for 
good or for evil: but he gradually assumed more 
courage: and his father (as it seemed to him) 
looked upon him so piteously, and as it were de- 
siring to have conversation v/ith him, and did in 
all respects appear so like himself as he was when 
he lived, that Hamlet could not help addressing 
him: he called him by his name Hamlet, King, 
Father! and conjured him that he would tell the 
reason why he had left his grave, where they had 
seen him quietly bestowed, to come again and 



310 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

visit the earth and the mooiilight: and besought 
him that he would let them know if there was 
any thing which they could do to give peace to 
his spirit. And the ghost beckoned to Hamlet, 
that he should go with him to some more removed 
place, where they might be alone: and Horatio 
and Marcellus would have dissuaded the young 
prince from following it, for they feared lest it 
should be some evil spirit, who would tempt him 
to the neighbouring sea, or to the top of some 
dreadful cliif, and there put on some horrible 
shape which might deprive the prince of his rea- 
son. B'ut their counsels and entreaties could not 
alter Hamlet's determination, who cared too little 
about life to fear the losing of it; and as to his 
soul, he said, what could the spirit do to that, 
being a thing immortal as itself? and he felt as 
hardy as a lion, and bursting from them, who did 
al] they could to hold him, he followed whither- 
soever the spirit led him. 

And when they were alone together, the spirit 
broke silence, and told him that he was the ghost 
of Hamlet, his father, who had been cruelly mur- 
dered, and he told the manner of it; that it was 
done by his own brother Claudius, Hamlet's uncle, 
as Hamlet had already but too much suspected, for 
the hope of succeeding to his bed and crown. 
That as he was sleeping in his garden, his custom 
always in the afternoon, this treasonous brother 
stole upon him in his sleep, and poured the juice 
of poisonous henbane into his ears, which has 
such an antipathy to the hfe of man, that swift as 
quicksilver it courses through all the veins of the 
body, baking up the blood, and spreading a crust- 
like leprosy all over the skin: thus sleeping, by a 



HAMLET. 311 

brother's hand he "was cut off at once from his; 
crown, his queen, and his hfe: and he adjured 
Hamlet, if he did ever his dear father love, that 
he would revenge his foul murder. And the 
ghost lamented to his son, that his mother should 
so fall off from virtue, as to prove false to the 
wedded love of her first husband, and to marry 
his m.urderer: but he cautioned Hamlet, how- 
soever he proceeded in his revenge against his 
wicked uncle, by no means to act any violence 
against the person of his mother, bat to leave her 
to heaven, and to the stings and thorns of con- 
science. And Hamlet promised to observe the 
ghost's direction in all things, and the ghost 
vanished. 

And when Hamlet was left alone, he took up 
a solemn resolution, that all he had in his me- 
mory, all that he had ever learned by books or 
observation, should be instantly forgotten by him, 
and nothing live in his brain but the memory of 
v/hat the ghost had told him, and enjoined him 
to do. And Hamlet related the particulars of the 
conversation which had passed to none but his 
dear friend Horatio; and he enjoined both to him 
and Marcellus the strictest secrecy as to what 
they had seen that night. 

The terror which the sight of the ghost had 
left upon the senses of Hamlet, he being weak 
and dispirited before, almost unhinged his mind, 
and drove him beside his reason. And he, fear- 
ing that it would continue to have this effect, 
which might subject him to observation, and set 
his uncle upon his guard, if he suspected that he 
w^as medita?ting any thing against him, or that 
Hamlet really knew more of his father's death 



312 TALES FROM SHAKgPEARE. 

than he professed, took up a strange resolution, 
from that time to counterfeit as if he were really 
and truly mad; thinking that he would be less an 
object of suspicion when his uncle should believe 
him incapable of any serious project, and that 
his real perturbation of mind would be best co- 
vered and pass concealed under a disguise of pre- 
tended lunacy. 

From this time Hamlet affected a certain wild- 
ness and strangeness in his apparel, his speech, 
and behaviour, and did so excellently counterfeit 
the madman, that the king and queen were both 
deceived, and not thinking his grief for his fa- 
ther's death a sufficient cause to produce such a 
distemper, for they knew not of the appearance 
of the ghost, they concluded that his malady was 
bve, and they thought they had found out the 
object. 

Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way 
which has been related, he had dearly loved a 
fair maid called Ophelia, the daughter of Polo- 
nius, the king's chief counsellor in affairs of state. 
He had sent her letters and rings, and made many 
tenders of his affection to her, and importuned 
her with love in honourable fashion: and she had 
given belief to his vows and importunities. But 
the melancholy which he fell into latterly had 
made him neglect her, and from the time he con- 
ceived the project of counterfeiting madness, he 
affected to treat her with unkindness, and a sort 
of rudeness; but she, good lady, rather than re- 
proach him with being false to her, persuaded 
herself that it was nothing but the disease in his 
mind, and no settled unkindness, which had made 
him less observant of her than formerly: and she 



HAMLET. 313 

compared the faculties of his once noble mind 
and excellent understanding, impaired as they 
were with the deep melancholy that oppressed 
him, to sweet bells which in themselves are ca- 
pable of most exquisite music, but when jangled 
out of tune, or rudely handled, prodace only a 
harsh and unpleasing sound. 

Though the rough business which Hamlet had 
in hand, the revenging of his father's death upon 
his murderer, did not suit with the playful state 
of courtship, or admit of the society of so idle a 
passion as love now seemed to him, yet it could 
not hinder but that soft thoughts of his Ophelia 
would come between, and in one of these mo- 
ments, when he thought that his treatment of this 
gentle lady had been unreasonably harsh, he 
wrote her a lettler full of wild starts of passion, 
and in extravagant terms, such as agreed with 
his supposed madness, but mixed with some 
gentle touches of affection, which could not but 
show to this honoured lady, that a deep love for 
her yet lay at the bottom of his heart. He bade 
her to doubt the stars were fire, and to doubt that 
the sun did move, to doubt truth to be a liar, but 
never to doubt that he loved; Avith more of such 
extravagant phrases. This letter Ophelia duti- 
fully showed to her father, and the old mian 
thought himself bound to communicate it to the 
king and queen, who from that time supposed 
tliat the true cause of Hamlet's madness was love. 
And the queen wished that the good beauties ot 
Ophelia might be the happy cause of his wild- 
ness, for so she hoped that her virtues might hap- 
pily restore him to his accustomed way again, to 
both their honours. 
27 



314 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she sup- 
posed, or than could be so cured. His father's 
ghost, which he had seen, still haunted his ima- 
gination, and the sa-cred injunction to revenge 
his murder gave him no rest till it was accom- 
plished. Every hour of delay seemed to him a 
sin, and a violation of his father's commands. 
Yet how to compass the death of the king, sur- 
rounded as he constantly was with his guards, 
was no easy matter. Or if it had been, the pre- 
sence of the queen, Hamlet's mother, who was 
generally with the king, was a restraint upon his 
purpose, which he could not brersk throiigh. Be- 
sides, the very circumstance that the usurper was 
his mother's husband, filled him with some remorse, 
and still blunted the edge of his purpose. The 
mere act of putting a fellow creature to death was 
in itself odious and terrible to a disposition natu- 
rally so gentle as Hamlet's was. His very me- 
lancholy, and the dejection of spirits he had so 
long been in, produced an irresoluteness and 
wavering of purpose, which kept him from pro- 
ceeding to extremities. Moreover, he could not 
help having some scruples upon his mind, whe- 
ther the spirit which he had seen was indeed his 
father, or whether it might not be the devil, who 
he had heard has power to take any form he 
pleases, and who might have assumed his father's 
shape only to take advantage of his weakness and 
his melancholy, to drive him to the doing of so 
desperate an act as murder. And he determined 
that he would have more certain grounds to go 
upon than a vision, or apparition, which might be 
a delusion. 

"While he was in this irresolute mind, there 



HAMLET. 315 

came to the court certain players, In whom Ham- 
let formerly used to take delight, and particularly 
to hear one of them speak a tragical speech, de- 
scribing the death of old Priam, king of Troy, 
with the grief of Hecuba, his queen. Hamlet wel- 
comed his old friends, the players, and remem- 
bering how that speech had formerly given him 
pleasure, requested the player to repeat it; which 
he did in so lively a manner, setting forth the 
cruel murder of the feeble old king, with the de- 
destruction of his people and city by fire, and the 
mad grief of the old queen, running barefoot up 
and down the palace, with a poor clout upon that 
head where a crown had been, and with nothing 
but a blanket upon her loins, snatched up in 
haste, where she had worn a royal robe: that not 
only it drew tears from all that stood by, who 
thought they saw the real scene, so lively was it 
represented, but even the player himself delivered 
it with a broken voice and real tears. This put 
Hamlet upon thinking, if that player could so 
work himself up to passion by a mere fictitious 
speech, to weep for one that he had never seen, 
for Hecuba, that had been dead so many hundred 
years, how du41 was he, who having a real motive 
and cue for passion, a real king and a dear father 
murdered, was yet so little moved, that his re- 
venge all this while had seemed to have slept in 
dull and muddy forgetfulness! And while he 
meditated on actors and acting, and the povv'-erful 
effects which a good play, represented to the life, 
has upon the spectator, he remembered the in- 
stance of some murderer, who seeing a murder 
on the stage, was by the mere force of the scene 
and resemblance of circumstances so affected, 



e316 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



that on the spot he confessed the crime which he 
had committed. And he determined that these 
players should play something like the murder of 
his father before Ls uncle, and he would watch 
narrowly what effect it might have upon him, and 
from his looks he would be able to gather with 
more certainty if he were the murderer or not. 
To this effect he ordered a play to be prepared, 
to the representation of which he invited the 
king and queen. 

The story of the play was of a murder done in 
Vienna upon a duke. The duke's name was 
Gonzago, his wife Baptista. The play showed 
how one Lucianus, a near relation to "the duke, 
poisoned him in his garden for his estate, and 
how the murderer in a short time after got the 
love of Gonzago' s wife. 

At the representation of this play, the king, 
who did not know the trap which was laid for 
him, v/as present, with his queen and the whole 
court: Hamlet sitting attentively near him to ob- 
serve his looks. The play began with a conver- 
sation between Gonzago and his wife, in which 
the lady made many protestations of love, and 
of never marrying a second husband, if she should 
outlive Gonzago; wishing she might be accursed 
if she ever took a second husband, and adding 
that no woman ever did so but those wicked wo- 
men who kill their first husbands. Hamlet ob- 
served the king, his uncle, change colour at this 
expression, and that it was as bad as wormwood 
both to him and to the queen. But when Luci- 
anus, according to the story, came to poison Gon- 
zago sleeping in the garden, the strong resem- 
blance which it bore to his own wicked act upon 



HAMLET. 317 

the late king, his brother, whom he had poisoned 
in his garden, so struck upon the conscience of 
this usurper, that he was unable to sit out the rest 
of the play, but on a sudden calling for lights to 
his chamber, and aifecting or partly feeling a 
sudden sickness, he abruptly left the theatre. The 
king being departed, the play was given over. 
Now Hamlet had seen enough to be satisfied that 
the words of the ghost were true, and no illusion; 
and in a fit of gaiety, like that which comes over 
a man who suddenly has some great doubt or 
scruple resolved, he swore to Horatio, that he 
would take the ghost's word for a thousand 
pounds. But before he could make up his reso- 
lution as to what measures of revenge he should 
take, now he was certainly informed that his 
uncle was his father's murderer, he was sent for 
by the queen, his mother, to a private conference 
in her closet. 

It was by desire of the king that the queen 
sent for Hamlet, that she might signify to her son 
how much his late behaviour had displeased them 
both; and the king, wishing to know all that 
passed at that conference, and thinking that the 
too partial report of a mother might let slip some 
part of Hamlet's words, which it might much im- 
port the king to know, Polonius, the old coun- 
sellor of state, was ordered to plant himself be- 
hind the hangings in the queen's closet, where 
he might unseen hear all that passed. This arti 
fice was particularly adapted to the disposition ot 
Polonius, who was a man grown old in crooked 
maxims and policies of state, and delighted to 
get at the knowledge of matters in an indirect 
and cunning way. 
^7* 



318 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

riamlet being come to his mother, she began 
to tax him in the roundest way with his actions 
and behaviour, and she told him that he had given 
great offence to his father, meaning the king, his 
uncle, whom, because he had married her, siie 
called Hamlet's father. Hamlet, sorely indignant 
that she she should give so dear and honoured a 
name as father seemed to him, to a wretch wht. 
was indeed no better than the murderer of his 
true father, with some sharpness rephed, "Mo- 
ther, you have much offended my father^ The> 
queen said that was but an idle answer. "As 
good as the question deserved," said Hamlet. 
The queen asked him if he had forgotten who it 
was he was speaking to? "Alas!" replied Hamlet, 
"I wish I could forget. You are the queen, youi 
husband's brother's wife; and you are my mo- 
ther: I wish you were not what you are." " Nay, 
then," said the queen, "if you show me so little 
respect, I will set those to you that can speak," 
and was going to send the king or Polonius to 
him. But Hamlet would not let her go, now he 
had her alone, till he had tried if his words could 
not bring her to some sense of her wicked hfe; 
and, taking her by the wrist, he held her fast, 
and made her sit down. She, affrighted at his 
earnest manner, and fearful lest in his lunacy he 
should do her a mischief, cried out: and a voice 
was heard from behind the hangings, " Help, help 
the queen!" which Hamlet hearing, and verily 
thinking that it was the king himself there con- 
cealed, he drew his sword, and stabbed at the 
place where the voice came from, as he would 
have stabbed a rat that ran there, till the voice 
ceasing, he concluded the person to be dead. But 



HAMLET. 319 

when, he dragged forth the body, it was not the 
king, but Polonius, the old officious counsellor, 
that had planted himself as a spy behind the 
hangings. " O me!" exclaimed the queen, "what 
a rash and bloody deed have you done!" "A 
bloody deed, mother," replied Hamlet, "but not 
so bad as yours, who killed a king, and married 
his brother." Hamlet had gone too far to leave 
off here. He was now in the humour to speak 
plainly to his mother, and he pursued it. And 
though the faults of parents are to be tenderly 
treated by their children, yet in the case of great 
crimes the son may have leave to speak even to 
his own mother with some harshness, so as that 
harshness is meant for her good, and to turn her 
from her wicked ways, and not done for the pur- 
pose of upbraiding. And now this virtuous prince 
did in moving terms represent to the queen the 
heinousness of her offence, in being so forgetful 
of the dead king, his father, as in so short a space 
of time to marry with his brother and reputed 
muiderer: such an act as, after the vows which 
she had sworn to her first husband, was enough 
to make all vows of women suspected, and all 
virtue to be accounted hypocrisy, wedding con- 
tracts to be less than gamesters' oaths, and religion 
to be a mockery and a mere form of words. He 
said she had done sucn a deed, that the heavens 
blushed at it, and the earth was sick of her be- 
cause of it. And he showed her two pictures, 
the one of the late king, her first husband, and 
the other of the present king, her second hus- 
band, and he bade her mark the difference: what 
a grace was on the brow of his father, how like 
god he looked! the curls of Apollo, the fore- 



320 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

head of Jupiter, the eye of Mars, and a posture 
Hke to Mercury newly ahghted on some heaven- 
kissing hill! this man, he said, had been her hus- 
band. And then he showed her whom she had 
got in his stead: how like a blight or a mildew he 
looked, for so he had blasted his wholesome bro- 
ther. And the queen was sore ashamed that he 
should so turn her eyes inward upon her soul, 
which she now saw so black and deformed. And 
he asked her how she could continue to live with 
this man, and be a wife to him, who had mur- 
dered her first husband, and got the crown by as 

false means as a thief And just as he 

spoke, the ghost of his father, such as he was in 
his lifetime, and such as he had lately seen it, 
entered the room, and Hamlet, in great terror, 
asked what it would have; and the ghost said that 
it came to remind him of the revenge he had 
promised, which Hamlet seemed to have forgot: 
and the ghost bade him speak to his mother, for 
the grie'f and terror she was in would else kill 
her. It then vanished, and was seen by none 
but Hamlet, neither could he by pointing to where 
it stood, or by any description, make his mother 
perceive it; who was terribly frightened all this 
while to hear him conversing, as it seemed to her, 
with nothing: and she imputed it to the disorder of 
his mind. But Hamlet beo-o-ed her not to flatter her 

DO 

wicked soul in such a manner as to think that it 
was his madness, and not her own offences, which 
had brou.o;ht his father's spirit again on the earth. 
And he bade her feel his pulse, how temperately 
it beat, not like a madman's. And he begged of 
her with tears, to confess herself to heaven for 
what was past, and for the future to avoid the 



HAMLET 3*21 

company of the king, and be no more as a wife 
to him: and when she should sho\v herself a mo- 
ther to him, by respecting his father's memory, 
he would ask a blessing of her as a son. And 
she promising to observe his directions, the con- 
ference ended. 

And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider 
who it was that in his unfortunate rashness he 
had killed: and when he came to see that it was 
Polonius, the father of the lady Ophelia, whom 
he so dearly loved, he drew apart the dead body, 
and, his spirits being now a little quieter, he wept 
for what he had done. 

This unfortunate death of Polonius gave the 
king a pretence for sending Hamlet out of the 
kingdom. He would willingly have put him to 
death, fearing him as dangerous; but he dreaded 
the people, who loved Hamlet; and the queen, 
who, with all her faults, doated upon the prince, 
her son. So this subtle king, under pretence of 
providing for Hamlet's safety, that he might not 
be called to account for Polonius' death, caused 
him to be conveyed on board a ship bound for 
England, under the care of two courtiers, by 
whom he dispatched letters to the English court, 
which at that time was in subjection and paid 
tribute to Denmark, requiring for special reasons 
there pretended, that Hamlet should be put to 
death as soon as he landed on English ground. 
Hamlet, suspecting some treachery, in the night- 
time secretly got at the letters, and skilfully eras- 
ing his own name, he in the stead of it put in 
the names of those two courtiers, W'ho had the 
charge of him, to be put to death: then sealing 
up the letters, he put them in their place again. 



322 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Soon after the ship was attacked by pirates, and 
a seafight commenced; in the course of which 
Hamlet, desirous to show his valour, with sword 
in hand singly boarded the enemy's vessel; while 
his own ship, in a cowardly manner, bore away, 
and leaving him to his fate, the two courtiers 
made the best of their way to England, charged 
with those letters the sense of which Hamlet had 
altered to their own deserved destruction. 

The pirates, who had the prince in their power, 
showed themselves gentle enemies; and knowino; 
whom they had got prisoner, in the hope that the 
prince might do them a good turn at court in re- 
compense for any favour they might show him, 
they set Hamlet on shore at the nearest port in 
Denmark. From that place Hamlet wrote to the 
king, acquainting him with the strange chance 
which had brought him back to his own country, 
and saying that on the next day he should pre- 
sent himself before his majesty. When he got 
home, a sad spectacle offered itself the first thing 
to his eyes. 

This was the funeral of the young and beauti- 
ful Ophelia, his once dear mistress. The wits of 
this young lady had begun to turn ever since her 
poor father's death. That he should die a violent 
death, and by the hands of the prince whom she 
loved, so affected this tender young maid, that in 
a little time she grew perfectly distracted, and 
would go about giving flowers away to the ladies 
of the court, and saying that they were for her 
father's burial, singing songs about love and about 
death, and sometimes such as had no meaning at 
all, as if she had no memory of what happened 
to her. There was a willow which giew slanting 



HAMLET. 323 

over a brook, and reflected its leaves in the stream. 
To this brook she came one da}^ when she was 
unwatched, with garlands she had been making, 
mixed up of daisies and nettles, flowers and 
weeds together, and clambering up to hang her 
garland upon the boughs of the willow, a bough 
broke and precipitated this fair young maid, gar- 
land, and all that she had gathered, into the wa- 
ter, where her clothes bore her up for a while, 
during which she chanted scraps of old tunes', 
like one insensible to her own distress, or as if 
she were a creature natural to that element: but 
long it was not before her garments, heavy v/ith 
the wet, pulled her in from her melodious singing 
to a muddy and miserable death. It was the fu- 
neral of this fair maid which her brother Laertes 
was celebrating, the king and queen and whole 
court being present, when Hamlet arrived. He 
knew not what all this show imported, but stood 
on one side, not inclining to interrupt the cere- 
mony. He saw the flowers strewed upon her 
grave, as the custom was in maiden burials, which 
the queen herself threw in; and as she threw 
them, she said, "Sweets to the sweet! I thought 
to have decked thy bride-bed, sweet maid, not to 
have strewed thy grave. Thou shouldst have been 
my Hamlet's wife." And he heard her brother 
wish that violets might spring from her grave: 
and he saw him leap into the grave all frantic 
with grief, and bid the attendants pile mountains 
of earth upon him, that he might be buried with 
her. And Hamlet's love for this fair maid came 
back to him, and he could not bear that a brother 
should show so much transport of grief, for he 
thought that he loved Ophelia better than forty 



324 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

thousand brothers. Then discovering himself, he 
leaped into the grave where Laertes was, all as 
frantic or more frantic than he, and Laertes know- 
ing him to be Hamlet, who had been the cause 
of his father's and his sister's death, grappled him 
by the throat as an enemy, till the attendants 
parted them: and Hamlet, after the funeral, ex- 
cused his hasty act in throwing himself into the 
grave as if to brave Laertes; but he said he could 
not bear that any one should seem to outgo him 
in grief for the death of the fair Ophelia. And 
for the time these two noble youths seemed re- 
conciled. 

But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for 
the death of his father and Ophelia, the king, 
Hamlet's wicked uncle, contrived destruction for 
Hamlet. He set on Laertes, under cover of peace 
and reconciliation, to challenge Hamlet to a 
friendly trial of skill at fencing, which Hamlet 
accepting, a day was appointed to try the match. 
At this match all the court was present, and 
Laertes, by direction of the king, prepared a 
poisoned weapon. Upon this match great wagers 
were laid by the courtiers, as both Hamlet and 
Laertes were known to excel at this sword-play; 
and Hamlet taking up the foils chose one, not at 
all suspecting the treachery of Laertes, or being 
careful to examine Laertes' weapon, who, instead 
of a foil or blunted sword, which the laws of 
fencing require, made use of one with a point, 
and poisoned. At first Laertes did but play with 
Hamlet, and suffered him to gain some advan- 
tages, which the dissembling king magnified and 
extolled beyond measure, drinking to Hamlet's 
success, and wagering rich bets upon the issue: 



HAMLET. 325 

but after a few passes, Laertes growing warm 
made a deadly thrust at Hamlet with his poisoned 
weapon, and gave him a mortal blow. Hamlef 
incensed, but not knov/ing the whole of the 
treachery, in the scuffle exchanged his own inno- 
cent weapon for Laertes' deadly one, and with 
a thrust of Laertes' own sword repaid Laertes 
home, who was thus justly caught in his own 
treachery. In this instant the queen shrieked out 
that she was poisoned. She had inadvertently 
drunk out of a bowl which the king had prepared 
for Hamlet, in case that being warm in fencing 
he should call for drink: into this the treacherous 
kinj^ had infused a deadly poison, to make sure 
of Hamlet, if Laertes had failed. He had for- 
gotten to warn the queen of the bowl, which she 
drank of, and immediately died, exclaiming with 
her last breath that she was poisoned. Hamlet, 
suspecting some treachery, ordered the doors to 
be shut, while he sought it out. Laertes told him 
to seek no further, for he was the traitor; and 
feeling his life go away with the wound which 
Hamlet had given him, he made confession of 
the treachery he had used, and how he had fallen 
a victim to it: and he told Hamlet of the en- 
venomed point, and said that Hamlet had not 
half an hour to live, for no medicine could cure 
him; and begging forgiveness of Hamlet, he died, 
with his last words accusing the king of being 
the contriver of the mischief. When Hamlet 
saw his end draw near, there being yet some 
venom left upon the sword, he suddenly turned 
upon his false uncle, and thrust the point of it to 
his heart, fuljQlling the promise Vvdiich he had 
made to his father's spirit, whose injunction was 
28 



320 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

now accomplished, and his foul murder revenged 
upon the murderer. Then Hamlet, feeling his 
breath fail and life departing, turned to his dear 
friend Horatio, who had been spectator of this 
fatal tragedy; and with his dying breath requested 
him that he would live to tell his story to the 
world (for Horatio had made a motion as if he 
would slay himself to accompany the prince in 
death,) and Horatio promised that he would make 
1 true report, as one that was privy to all the cir- 
"•umstances. And, thus satisfied, the noble heart 
:>f Hamlet cracked: and Horatio and the by- 
standers with many tears commended the spirit 
of their sweet prince to the guardianship of an- 
^eis. For Hamlet was a loving and a gentle 
prince, and greatly beloved for his many noble 
and prince-like qualities; and if he had lived, 
would no doubt have proved a most royal and 
complete king to Denmark. 



OTHELLO. • ■ 

BRAJiANTio, the rich senator of Venice, had a 
fair daughter, the gentle Desdemona. She was 
sought to by divers suitors, both on account of 
her many virtuous quahties and for her rich ex- 
pectations. But among the suitors of her own 
clime and complexion she saw none whom she 
could affect: for this noble lady, who regarded 
the mind more than the features of men, with a 
singularity rather to be admired than imitated, 
had chosen for the object of her affections, a 
Moor, a black, whom her father loved, and often 
invited to his house. 

Neither is Desdemona to be altogether con- 
demned for the unsuitableness of the person 
whom she selected for her lover. Bating that 
Othello was black, the noble Moor wanted nothing 
which might recommend him to the affections of 
the greatest lady. He was a soldier, and a brave 
one; and by his conduct in bloody wars against 
the Turks had risen to the rank of general in the 
Venetian service, and was esteemed and trusted 
by the state. 

He had been a traveller, and Desdemona (as 
is the manner of ladies) loved to hear him tell 
the story of his adventures, which he would run 
through from his earliest recollection; the battles, 
sieges, and encounters, which he had passed 
through; the perils he had been exposed to by 
land and by water; his hair-breadth escapes, 
wlien he had entered a breach, or marched up to 



328 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the mouth of a cannon; and how he had been 
taken a prisoner by the insolent enemy, and sold 
to slavery: how he demeaned himself in that 
state, and how he escaped: all these accounts, 
added to the narration of the strange things he 
had seen in foreign countries, the vast wildernesses 
and romantic caverns, the quarries, the rocks 
and mountains, whose heads are in the clouds; 
of the savage nations, the cannibals who are man- 
eaters, and a race of people in Africa whose heads 
do grow beneath their shoulders: these travellers' 
stories would so enchain the attention of Desde- 
mona, that if she w^ere called off at any time by 
household affairs, she would despatch with all 
haste that business, and return, and with a greedy 
ear devour Othello's discourse. And once he 
took advantage of a pliant hour, and drew from 
her a prayer, that he would tell her the whole 
story of his life at large, of which she had heard 
so much, but only by parts: to which he con- 
sented, and beguiled her of many a tear, when 
he spoke of some distressful stroke which his 
youth suffered. 

His story being done, she gave him for his 
pains a world of sighs: she swore a pretty oath, 
that it was all passing strange, and pitiful, won- 
drous pitiful: she wished (she said) she had not 
heard it, yet she wished that heaven had made 
her such a man: and then she thanked him, and 
told him, if he had a friend who loved her, he 
had only to teach him how to tell his story, and 
that would woo her. Upon this hint, deli- 
vered not with more frankness than modesty, 
accompanied with a certain bewitching pretti- 
ness, and blushes^ which Othello could not but 



OTHELLO. 329 

understand, he spoke more openly of his love, 
and in this golden opportunity gained the con- 
sent of the generous lady Desdemona privately 
to marry him. 

Neither Othello's colour nor his fortune were 
such, that if it could be hoped Brabantio would 
accept him for a son-in-law. He had left his 
daughter free; but he did expect that, as the 
manner of noble Venetian ladies was, she would 
choose ere long a husband of senatorial rank or 
expectations: but in this he was deceived; Des- 
demona loved the Moor, though he was black, 
and devoted her heart and fortunes to his valiant 
parts and qualities: so was her heart subdued to 
an implicit devotion to the man she had selected 
for a husband, that his very colour, which to all 
but this discerning lady would have proved an 
insurmountable objection, was by her esteemed 
above all the white skins and clear complexions 
of the young Venetian nobility, her suitors. 

Their marriage, which, though privately ear- 
ned, could not long be kept a secret, came to the 
ears of the old man, Brabantio, who appeared in 
a solemn council of the senate, as an accuser of 
the Moor Othello, who by spells and witchcraft 
(he maintained) had seduced the affections of the 
fair Desdemona to marry him, without the con- 
sent of her father, and against the obligations of 
Iiospitality. 

At this juncture of time it happened that the 
state of Venice had immediate need of the ser- 
vices of Othello, news having arrived that the 
Turks with mighty preparation had fitted out a 
fleet, which was bending its course to the island 
of Cyprus, with mtent to regain that strong post 
28* 



330 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

from the Venetians, who then held it: in this 
emergency the state turned its eyes upon Othello, 
who alone was deemed adequate to conduct the 
defence of Cyprus agaii.jt the Turks, So that 
Othello, now summoned before the senate, stood 
in their presence at once as a candidate for a 
great state employment, and as a culprit, charged 
wdth offences which by the laws of Venice were 
made capital. 

The age and senatorial character of old Bra- 
ban tio commanded a most patient hearing from 
that grave assembly; but the incensed father con- 
ducted his accusation with so much intemper- 
ance, producing likelihoods and allegations for 
proofs, that, when Othello was called upon for 
his defence, he had only to relate a plain tale of 
the course of his love; which he did with such 
an artless eloquence, recounting the whole story 
of his wooing, as w^e have related it above, and 
delivered his speech with so noble a plainness 
(the evidence of truth,) that the duke, who sat 
as chief judge, could not help confessing, that a 
tale so told would have won his daughter too: 
and the spells and conjurations, which Othello 
had used in his courtship, plainly appeared to 
have been no more than the honest arts of men 
in love; and the only witchcraft which he had 
used, the faculty of telling a soft tale to win a 
lady's ear. 

This statement of Othello was confirmed b;y 
the testimony of the lady Desdemona herself, 
who appeared in court, and professing a duty to 
her father for life and education, challenged leave 
of him to profess a yet higher duty to her lord 
and husband, even so much as her mother had 



OTHELLO. 331 

«hown in preferring him (Brabantio) above her 
father. 

The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, 
called the Moor to him. with many expressions 
of sorrow, and, as an act of necessity, bestowed 
upon him his daughter, whom, if he had been 
free to withhold her (he told him,) he would with 
all his heart have kept from him; adding, that he 
was glad at soul that he had no other child, for 
this behaviour of Desdemona would have taught 
him to be a tyrant, and hang clogs on them for 
her desertion. 

This difficulty being got over, Othello, to whom 
custom had rendered the hardships of a military 
life as natural as food and rest are to other men, 
readily undertook the management of the wars 
in Cyprus: and Desdemona, preferring the ho- 
nour of her lord (though with danger) before the 
indulgence of those idle delights in which new- 
married people usually waste their time, cheer- 
fully consented to his going. 

No sooner were Othello and his lady landed 
in Cyprus, than news arrived, that a desperate 
tempest had dispersed the Turkish fleet, and thus 
the island was secure from any immediate appre- 
hension of an attack. But the war, which Othello 
was to suffer, was now beginning; and the ene- 
mies, which malice stirred up against his inno- 
cent lady, proved in their nature more deadly 
than strangers or infidels. 

Among all the general's friends no one pos- 
sessed the confidence of Othello more entirely 
than Cassioc Michael Cassio was a young sol- 
dier, a Florentine, gay, amorous, and of pleasing 
address favourite qualities with women; he was 



._i 



'43'2 TALES FROM SHA.KSPEARE. 

handsome, and eloquent, and exactly such a per- 
son as might alarm the jealousy of a man ad- 
vanced in years (as Othello in some measure 
was,) who had married a young and beautiful 
Vv'ife; but Othello was as free from jealousy as he 
was noble, and as incapable of suspecting, as 
of doing, a base action. He had employed thia 
Cassio in his love affair with Desdemona, and 
Cassio had been a sort of go-between in his suit: 
f)r Othello, foanng that himself had not those 
soft parts of conversation which please ladies, and 
finding these qualities in his friend, would often 
depute Cassio to go (as he phrased it) a courting 
for him: such innocent simphcity being rather 
an honour than a blemish to the character of the 
valiant Moor. So that no wonder, if next to 
Othello himself (but at far distance, as beseems a 
virtuous wife) the gentle Desdemona loved and 
trusted Cassio. Nor had the marriage of this 
couple made any difference in their behaviour to 
Michael Cassio. He frequented their house, and 
his free and rattling talk was no unpleasing variety 
to Othello, who was himself of a more serious 
temper: for such tempers are observed often to 
delight in their contraries, as a relief from the 
oppressive excess of their own: and Desdemona 
and Cassio would talk and laugh together, as in 
the days when he went a courting for his friend. 
Othello had lately promoted Cassio to be the 
heutenant, a place of trust, and nearest to the 
general's person. This promotion scave great of- 
fence to lago, an older officer, who thought he 
had a better claim than Cassio, and would often 
ridicule Cassio, as a fellow fit only for the com- 
pany of ladies, and one that knew no more of 



OTHELLO. 333 

the art of war, or how to set an army in array 
for battle, than a girl. lago hated Cassio, and he 
hated Othello, as well for favouring Cassio, as for 
an unjust suspicion, which he had lightly taken 
up against Othello, that the Moor was too fond of 
lago's wife Emilia. From these imaginary pro- 
vocations, the plotting mind of lago conceived a 
horrid scheme of revenge, which should involve 
both Cassio, the Moor, and Desdemona in one 
common ruin. 

lago was artful, and had studied human nature 
deeply, and he knew that of all the torments 
which afflict the mind of man (and far beyond 
bodily torture,) the pains of jealousy were the 
most intolerable, and had the sorest sting. If he 
could succeed in making Othello jealous of Cassio, 
he thought it would be an exquisite plot of re- 
venge, and might end in the death of Cassio or 
Othello, or both; he cared not. 

The arrival of the general and his lady in Cy- 
prus, meeting with the news of the dispersion of 
the enemy's fleet, made a sort of holiday in the 
island. Every body gave themselves up to feast- 
ing and making merry. Wine flowed in abun- 
dance, and cups went round to the health of the 
black Othello, and his lady the fair Desdemona. 

Cassio had the direction of the guard that 
night, with a charge from Othello to keep the 
soldiers from excess in drinking, that no brawl 
might arise, to fright the inhabitants, or disgust 
them with the new-landed forces. That night 
lago began his deep-laid plans of mischief; un- 
der colour of loyalty and love to the general, he 
enticed Cassio to make rather too free with the 
bottle (a grea: fault in an officer upon guard.) 



334 TALES FROM SHAKSPEAIIE. 

Cassio for a time resisted, but he could not long 
hold out against the honest freedom which lago 
knew how to put on, but kept sv/allowing glass 
after glass (as lago still plied him with drink and 
encouraging songs,) and Cassio' s tongue ran over 
in praise of the lady Desdemona, whom he again 
and again toasted, affirming that she was a most 
exquisite lady: until at last the enemy which he 
put into his mouth, stole away his brains; and upon 
some provocation given him by a fellow whom 
lago had set on, swords were drawn, and Mori- 
tano, a worthy officer, who interfered to appease 
the dispute, was wounded in the scuffle. The 
riot now began to be general, and lago, who had 
set on foot the mischief, was foremost in spread- 
ing the alarm, causing the castle-beli to be rung 
(as if some dangerous mutiny instead of a sliglit 
drunken quarrel had arisen:) the alarm-bell ring- 
ing awakened Othello, who, dressed in a hurry, 
and coming to the scene of action, questioned 
Cassio of the cause. Cassio was now come to 
himself, the effi^ct of the wine having a little 
gone off, but v/as too much ashamed to reply; and 
lago, pretending a great reluctance to accuse 
Cassio, but as it were forced into it by Othello, 
who insisted to know the truth, gave an account 
of the whole matter (leaving out his own share 
in it, which Cassio was too far gone to remem- 
ber) in such a manner, as while he seemed lo 
make Cassio's offence less, did indeed make it 
appear greater than it was. The result was, that 
Othello, who was a strict observer of discipline, 
was compelled to take away Cassio's place of 
lieutenant from him. 

Thus did lago's first artifice succeed com- 



OTHELLO. 



335 



pletely; he had now undemnined his hated rival, 
and thrust Ijim out of his place: but a further use 
was hereafter to be made of the adventure of this 
disastrous night. 

Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely so- 
bered, now lamented to his seeming friend lago 
that he should have been such a fool as to trans- 
form himself into a beast. He was undone, for 
how could he ask the general for his place again! 
he would tell him he was a drunkard. He de- 
spised himself lago, affecting to make light of 
it, said, that he, or any man living, might be 
drunk upon occasion; it remained now to make 
the best of a bad bargain; the general's wife was 
now the general, and could do any thing with 
Othello; that he were best to apply to the lady 
Desdemona to mediate for him with her lord; that 
she w^as of a frank, obliging disposition, and would 
readily undertake a good office of this sort, and 
set Cassio right again in the general's favour; and 
then this crack in their lov« would b€ made 
stronger than ever. A good advice of lago, if it 
had not been given for wicked purposes, which 
will after appear. 

Cassio did as lago advised him, and made ap- 
plication to the lady Desdemona, who was easy 
to be won over in any honest suit; and she pro- 
mised Cassio that she would be his sohcitor with 
her lord, and rather die than give up his cause. 
This she immediately set about in so earnest and 
pretty a manner, that Othello, who was mortally 
offended with Cassio, could not put her off. When 
he pleaded delay, and that it was too soon to par- 
don such an offender, she would not be beat back, 
but insisted that it snould be the next night, or 



336 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the morning after, or the next morning to that at 
farthest. Then she showed how penitent and 
humble poor Cassio was, and that his offence did 
not deserve so sharp a check. And when Othello 
still hmig back, "What! my lord," said she, "that 
I should have so much to do to plead for Cassio, 
Michael Cassio, that came a courting for you, and 
oftentimes, when I have spoken in dispraise of 
you, has taken your part! I count this but a little 
thing to ask of you. When I mean to try your 
love indeed, I shall ask a weighty matter." 
Othello could deny nothing to such a pleader, and 
only requesting that Desdemona would leave the 
time to him, promised to receive Michael Cassio 
again into favour. 

"It happened that Othello and lago had entered 
into the room where Desdemona was, just as 
Cassio, who had been imploring her intercession, 
was departing at the opposite door; and lago, 
who was full of art, said in a low voice, as if to 
himself, "I like not that." Othello took no great 
notice of what he said; indeed the conference which 
immediately took place with his lady put it out 
of his head; but he remembered it afterwards. 
For w^hen Desdemona was gone, lago, as if for 
mere satisfaction of his thought, questioned 
Othello whether Michael Cassio, when Othello 
was courting his lady, knew of his love. To this 
the general answering in the affirmative, and ad- 
ding, that he had gone between them very often 
during the courtship, lago knitted his brow, as if 
he had got fresh light" of some terrible matter, 
and cried, "Indeed!" This brought into Othello's 
mind, the words which lago had let fall upon en- 
tering the room, and seeing Cassio with Desde- 



OTHELLO. 337 

mona; and he began to think there was some 
meaning in all this: for he deemed lago to be a 
«, just man, and full of love and honesty, and 
what in a false knave would be tricks,'^in him 
ceemed to be the natural workings of an honest 
mind, big with something too great for utterance: 
and Othello prayed lago to speak what he knew, 
and to give his worst thoughts words. "And 
what," said lago, "if some thoughts veiy vile 
should have intruded into my breast, as where is 
the palace into which foul things do not enter?" 
Then lago went on to say, what a pity it were, 
if any trouble should arise to Othello out of his 
imperfect observatio-ns; that it would not be for 
Othello's peace to know his thoughts; that peo- 
ple's good names were not to be taken away for 
slight suspicions; and when Othello's curiosity 
was raised almost to distraction with these hints 
and scattered words, lago, as if in earnest care 
for Othello's peace of mind, besought him to be- 
ware of jealousy: v;ith such art did this villain 
raise suspicions in the unguarded Othello, by the 
very caution which he pretened to give him 
against suspicion. "I know," said Othello, "that 
my wife is fair, loves' company and feasting, is 
free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well: but 
where virtue is, these qualities are virtuous. I 
must have proof before I think her dishonest." 
Then lago, as if glad that Othello was slow to 
believe ill of his lady, frankly declared that he 
had no proof, but begged Othello to observe her 
behaviour well, when Cassio was by; not to be 
jealous nor too secure neither, for that he (lago) 
knew the dispositions of the Italian ladies, his 
countrywomen, better than Othello could do; and 
29 



338 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 

that in Venice the wives let heaven see many- 
pranks they dared not show their husbands. Then 
he artfuhy insinuated, that Desdemona deceived 
her father in marrying with Othello, and carried 
it so closely, that the poor old man thought that 
witchcraft had been used. Othello was much 
moved with this argument, which brought the 
matter home to him, for if she had deceived her 
father, why might she not deceive her husband? 
lago begged pardon for having moved him; 
but Othello, assuming an indifference, while he 
was really shaken with inward grief at lago's 
words, begged him to go on, which lago did with 
many apologies, as if unwilling to produce any 
thing against Cassio, whom he called his friend: 
he then came strongly to the point, and reminded 
Othello how Desdemona had refused many suit- 
able matches of her own clime and complexion, 
and had married him, a Moor, which showed un- 
natural in her, and proved her to have a head- 
strong will: and when her better jud^ent re- 
turned, how probable it was she should fall upon 
comparing Othello with the fine forms and clear 
white complexions of the young Italans her coun- 
trymen. He concluded with advising Othello to 
put off his reconcilement with Cassio a little 
longer, and in the mean while to note with what 
earnestness Desdemona should intercede in his 
behalf; for that much would be seen in that. So 
mischievously did this artful villain lay his plotg 
to turn the gentle qualities of this innocent lady 
into her destruction, and make a net for her out 
of her own goodness to entrap her: first setting 
Cassio on to entreat her mediation, and then out 



OTHELLO. 333 

of that very mediation contriving stratagems for 
her ruin. 

The conference ended with lago's begging 
Othello to account his wife innocent, until he had 
more decisive proof; and Othello promised to be 
patient: but from that moment the deceived 
Othello never tasted content of mind. Poppy, 
nor the juice of man dr agora, nor all the sleeping 
potions in the world, could ever again restore to 
him that sweet rest, which he enjoyed but yes- 
terday. His occupation sickened upon him. He 
no longer took delight in arms. His heart that 
used to be roused at the sight of troops, and ban- 
ners, and battle-array, and would stir and leap at 
the sound of a drum, or a trumpet, or a neigh- 
ing war-horse, seemed to have lost all that pride 
and ambition, which are a soldier's virtue; and 
his military ardour and all his old joys forsook him. 
Sometimes he thought his wife honest, and at 
times he thought her not so; sometimes he thought 
lago just, and at times he thought him not so; 
then he would wish that he had never known of 
it; he was not the worse for her loving Cassio, so 
long as he knew it not: torn in pieces with these 
distracting thoughts, he once laid hold on lago's 
throat, and demanded proof of Desdemona's 
guilt, or threatened instant death for his having 
belied her. lago, feigning indignation that his 
honesty should be taken for a vice, asked Othello, 
if he had not sometimes seen a handkerchief 
spotted with strawberries in his wife's hand. 
Othello answered that he had given her such a 
one, and thaL it was his first gift. "That same 
handkerchief," said lago, " did I see Michael Cas- 
sio this day wipe his face with." " If it be as you 



340 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

say," said Othello, " I will not rest till a wide re- 
venge swallow them up: and first, for a token of 
your fidelity, I expect that Cassio shall be put to 
death within three days; and for that fair devil 
(meaning his lady,) I will withdraw and devise 
some swift means of death for her." 

Trifles, light as air, are to the jealous proofs as 
strong as holy writ. A handkerchief of his wife's 
seen in Cassio' s hand, was motive enough to the 
deluded Othello to pass sentence of death upon 
them both, without once inquiring how Cassio 
came by it. Desdemona had never given such 
a present to Cassio, nor would this constant lady 
have wronged her lord with doing so naughty a 
thing, as giving his presents to another man; 
both Cassio and Desdemona were innocent of any 
offence against Othello: but the wicked lago, 
whose spirits never slept in contrivance of viliany, 
had made his wife (a good, but a weak woman) 
steal this handkerchief from Desdemona, under 
pretence of getting the work copied, but in reality 
to drop it in Cassio' s way, where he might find 
it, and givQ a handle to lago's suggestion that it 
was Desdemona's present. 

Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended 
that he had a headach (as he might indeed v/ith 
truth,) and desired her to lend him her handker- 
chief to hold to his temples. She did so. "Not 
this," said Othello, "but that handkerchief I gave 
you." Desdemona had it not about her (for in- 
deed it was stolen as we have related.) "How!" 
said Othello, "this is a fault indeed. That hand 
kerchief an Egyptian woman gave to my mother; 
the woman was a witch, and could read people's 
thoughts: she told my mother, while she kept it. 



. OTHELLO. 341 

it would make her amiable, and my father would 
love her; but, if she lost it, or gave it away, my 
father's fancy would turn, and he would loathe 
her as much as he had loved her. She dying 
gave it me, and bade me, if I ever married, to 
give it to my wife. I did so; take heed of it. 
Make it a darling as precious as your eye." "Is 
it possible?" said the frighted lady. "Tis true;" 
continued Othello; " it is a magical handkerchief; 
a sibyl that had lived in the w^orld two hundred 
years, in a fit of prophetic fury worked it; the 
silkworms that furnished the silk were hallowed, 
and it was dyed in mummy of maidens' hearts 
conserved." Desdemona, hearing the wondrous 
virtues of the handkerchief, was ready to die 
with fear, for she plainly perceived she had lost 
it, and with it, she feared the affections of her 
husband. Then Othello started, and looked as if 
he w^ere going to do some rash thing, and still he 
demanded the handkerchief, which when she 
could not produce, she tried to divert her husband 
from too serious thoughts, and cheerfully told 
him, she saw all his talk about the handkerchief 
was only to put her off from her suit about Michael 
Cassio, whom she went on to praise (as lago had 
foretold,) till Othello in perfect distraction bursi 
out of the room, and then Desdemona, though 
unwillingly, began to suspect her lord was jealous. 
What cause she could have ministered to him 
she knew not, and then she accused herself for 
accusing the noble Othello, and thought to be 
sure that some untoward news from Venice, or 
some state troubles, had puddled his spirits, and 
made his temper not so sweet as formerly. And 
she said, "Men are not gods, and we must not 
29* 



34*2 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

look for that observance from them when they 
are married, which they show us on the bridal 
day." And she beshrewed herself for so unkindly 
judging of his unkindness. 

Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he 
accused her more plainly of being unfaithful, and 
of bving another man, but he did not name 
whom: and Othello wept, and Desdemona said, 
"Alas! the heavy day! why do you weep?" And 
Othello told her, he could have borne all sorts of 
evils with fortitude— poverty, and disease, and 
disgrace; but her infidelity had broken his heart: 
and he called her a weed, that looked so fair, and 
smelted so sweet, that the sense ached at it; and 
wished she had never been born. And when 
h'e had left her, this innocent lady was so stupi- 
fied with wonder at her lord's untrue suspicion 
of her, that a weight-like sleep came over her, 
and she only desired her attendant to make her 
bed, and to lay her wedding-sheets upon it, say- 
ing, that when people teach their babes, they do 
it by gentle means and easy tasks, and Othello 
mxight have chid her so; for in good faith she was 
but a child when she was chidden. And this 
was all the complaint which this gentle lady made, 

Desdemona being retired to bed expecting her 
lord would follow her, soon fell into a slumber the 
eifect of her troubled spirits, when Othello enter- 
ed the chamber, full of the black purpose which 
he liad meditated of putting his lady to death. 
But when he saw her asleep, he thought he would 
not shed her blood, nor scar that white skin of 
hers, more white than alabaster. But he was re- 
solved she should die; else (as he said) she would 
live to betray more men, as she had done him. 



OTHELLO. 343 

Thtn he kissed her for the last time (as he said,) 
and that kiss was so sweet, he must needs kiss 
her again: and he wept, but he said they were 
cruel tears. 

Desderaona was awakened with his kisses, and 
she looked upon Othello, and she saw him gnaw 
his under lip, and roll his eyes, and she knew he 
was always fatal when he looked so: and he bade 
her prepare for death, and to say her prayers, for 
he would not kill her soul. And this innocent 
wife, as she lay at his mercy, begged for compas- 
sion, and to know her fault, and then he named 
Cassio, and the handkerchief which (he said) 
she had given him; and as the guiltless lady was 
proceeding to clear herself, he suddenly would 
hear no more, but covering her up in the bed- 
clothes, stifled her till she died. 

In this instant of time was brought into the 
house Cassio, wounded and bleeding, whom lago 
had set one of his creatures on to assassinate; but 
the fellow not succeeding in his attempt to kill 
Cassio (whom he wounded, but not mortally,) 
and being himself killed by lago to prevent dis- 
covery, in his pockets were found certain letters, 
which made the guilt of lago, and the innocence 
of Cassio, clear beyond all doubt; and Cassio now 
came to beg pardon of Othello, and to ask where 
in he had offended him, that he had employed 
lago to murder him. 

This discovery was as a thunderstroke to Othello, 
who now plainly saw that he was no better than 
a murderer, and that his wife (poor innocent 
lady) had been ever faithful tc him; the extreme 
anguish of which discovery making life insup- 
portable, he fell upon his sword, and throwing 



344 TALES FROM SfsAIUP^ARE. 

himself upon the body ol his dear injured lady, 
expired. 

These rash acts raised much passion of horror 
and amazement in the bystanders, for Othello had 
borne a fair reputation, and till he was wrought 
upon by the arts of a villain, which his own no- 
ble nature never gave him leave to suspect, he 
was a loving and a doting husband. He had 
loved, not wisely, but too well; and his manly 
eyes (when he learned his mistake,) though not 
used to w^eep on every small occasion, dropped 
t^.ars as fast as the Arabian trees their gum. And 
when he was dead all his former merits and his 
valiant acts were remembered. Nothing now re- 
mained for his successor, but to put the utmost 
censure of the law in force ag-ainst lao-o, who 
was executed with strict tortures; and to send 
word to the state of Venice of the lamentable 
der*th of their renewed general. 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 

Pericles, prince of Tyre, became a voluntary 
exile from his dominions, to avert the dreadful 
calamities which Antiochus, the wicked emperoi 
of Greece, threatened to bring upon his subjects 
and city of Tyre, in revenge for a discovery which 
the prince had made of a shocking deed which 
the emperor had done in secret; as commonly it 
proves dangerous to pry into the hidden crimes 
of great ones. Leaving the government of his 
people in the hands of his able and honest min- 
ister, Helhcanus, Pericles set sail from Tyre, 
thinking to absent himself till the wrath of Anti- 
ochus, who was mighty, should be appeased. 

The first place v/hich the prince directed his 
course to was Tharsus, and hearing that the city 
of Tharsus was at that time suffering under a se- 
vere famine, he took with him store of provisions 
for its relief On his arrival he found the city 
reduced to the utmost distress; and, he coming 
like a messenger from heaven with this unhoped- 
for succour, Cleon, the governor of Tharsus, \Yel- 
comed him v/ith boundless thanks. Pericles had 
not been here many days, before letters cam.e 
from his faithful minister, warning him that it 
was not safe for him to stay at Tharsus, for Anti- 
ochus knew of his abode, and by secret emissa- 
ries dispatched for that purpose sought his life 
Upon receipt of these letters Pericles put out to 
sea again, amidst the blessings and prayers of a 
whole people who had been fed by his bounty. 



346 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

He had not sailed far, when his ship was over- 
taken by a dreadful storm, and every man on 
board perished except Pericles, who was cast by 
the sea-waves naked on an unknown shore, where 
he had not wandered long before he met with 
some poor fishermen, who invited him to their 
homes, giving him clothes and provisions. The 
fishermen told Pericles the name of their country 
was Pentapolis, and that their king was Simonides, 
commonly called the good Simonides, because of 
his peaceable reign and good government. From 
them he also learned that king Simonides had a 
fair young daughter, and that the following day 
was her birthday, when a grand tournament was 
to be held at court, many princes and knights 
being come from all parts to try their skill in 
arms for the love of Thaisa, this fair princess. 
While the prince was listening to this account, 
and secretly lamenting the loss of his good ar- 
mour, which disabled him from making one 
among these valiant knights, another fisherman 
brought in a complete suit of armour that he 
had taken out of the sea with his fishing net, 
which proved to be the very armour he had lost. 
When Pericles beheld his own armour, he said, 
" Thanks, Fortune; after all my crosses you give 
me somewhat to repair myself. This armour was 
bequeathed to me by my dead father, for whose 
dear sake I have so loved it, that whithersoever 
I went, I still have kept it by me, and the rough 
sea that parted it from me, having now become 
calm, hath given it back again, for which I thank 
it, for, since I have my father's gift again, I think 
my shipwreck no misfortune." 

The next day Pericles, clad in his brave father's 



PERICLES. 347 

armour, repaired to the royal court of Simonides, 
v/here he performed wonders at the tournament, 
vanquishing with ease ail the hrave knights and 
valiant princes who contended with him in arms 
for the honour of Thaisa's love. When brave 
v/arriors contended at court-tournaments for the 
love of kings' daughters, if one proved sole victor 
over all the rest, it was usual for the great lady 
for whose sake these deeds of valour were under- 
taken, to bestow all her respect upon the con- 
queror, and Thaisa did not depart from this cus- 
tom, for she presently dismissed all the princes 
and knights whom Pericles had vanquished, and 
distinguished him by her special favour and re- 
gard, crowning him with the wreath of victory, 
as king of that day's happiness; and Pericles be- 
came a most passionate lover of this beauteous 
princess from the first moment he beheld her. 

The good Simonides so well approved of the 
valour and noble qualities of Pericles, who was 
indeed a most accomplished gentleman, and well 
learned in all excellent arts, that though he knew 
not the rank of this royal stranger (for Pericles 
for fear of Antiochus gave out that he was a pri- 
vate gentleman of Tyre,) yet did not Symonides 
disdain to accept of the valiant unknown for a 
son-in-law, when he perceived his daughter's af- 
fections were firmly fixed upon him. 

Pericles had not been many months married to 
Thaisa, before he received intelligence that his 
enemy Antiochus was dead; and that his subjects 
of Tyre, impatient of his long absence, threatened 
to revolt, and talked of placing Helhcanus upon 
his vacant throne. This news came from Helli- 
canus himself, who being a loyal subject to his 






348 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



royal master, would not accept of the high dig. 
nity offered him, but sent to let Pericles know 
their intentions, that he might return home and 
resume his lawful right. It was matter of great 
surprise and joy to Symonides, to find that his 
son-in-law (the obscure knight) was the renowned 
prince of Tyre; yet agam he regretted that he 
was not the private gentleman he supposed him 
to be, seeing that he must now part both with his 
admired son-in-law, and his beloved daughter, 
whom he feared to trust to the perils of the sea, 
because Thaisa was with child; and Pericles him- 
self wished her to remain with her father till after 
her confinement, but the poor lady so earnestly 
desired to go with her husband, that at last they 
consented, hoping she would reach Tyre before 
she was brought to bed. 

The sea was no friendly element to unhappy 
Pericles, for long before they reached Tyre ano- 
ther dreadful tempest arose, which so terrified 
Thaisg. that she was taken ill, and in a short space 
of time her nurse Lychorida came to Pericles with 
a httle child in her arms, to tell the prince the 
sad tidings that his wife died the moment her 
little babe was born. She held the babe towards 
its father, saying, "Here is a thing too young for 
such a place. This is the child of your dead 
queen." No tongue can tell the dreadful suffer- 
ings of Pericles when he heard his wife was dead. 
As soon as he could speak, he said, " you gods, 
why do you make us love your goodly gifts, and 
then snatch those gifts away?" "Patience, good 
sir," said Lychorida, "here is arl that is left alive 
of our dead queen, a little daugh-ter, and for youi 
child's sake be more manly. Patience, good sii, 



PERICLES. 349 

even for the sake of this precious charge." Peri* 
cles took the new-born infant in his arms, and he 
said to the Httle babe, "Now may your life be 
mild, for a more blusterous birth had never babe! 
May your condition be mild and gentle, for you 
have had the rudest welcome that ever prince's 
child did meet with! May that which follows be 
happy, for you have had as chiding a nativity as 
fire, air, water, earth, and heaven, could make, 
to herald you from the womb! Even at the first, 
your loss," meaning in the death of her mother, 
"is more than all the joys which you shall find 
upon this earth, to which you are come a new 
visiter, shall be able to recompense." 

The storm still continuing to rage furiously, 
and the sailors having a superstition that while a 
dead body remained in the ship the storm would 
never cease, they came to Pericles to demiand 
that his queen should be thrown overboard; and 
they said, "What courage, sir? God save you!" 
"Courage enough/' said the sorrowing prince: 
"I do not fear the storm; it has done to me its 
worst; yet for the love of this poor infant, this 
fresh new sea-farer, I wish the storm was over.' 
" Sir," said the sailors, " your queen must over- 
board. The sea works high, the wind is loud, 
and the storm will not abate till the ship be clear- 
ed of the dead." Though Pericles knew how 
weak and unfounded this superstition was, yet he 
patiently submitted, saying, "As you think meet. 
Then she must overboard, most wretched queen!" 
And now this unhappy prince went to take a last 
v^iew of his dear wife, and as he looked on ]iis 
Thaisa, he said, "A terrible childbed hast thou 
had, my dear; no hght, no fire, the mfriendly 
30 



350 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARiS. 

elements forgot thee utterly, nor have I time to 
bring thee hallowed to thy grave, but must cast 
thee scarcely coffined into the sea, where for a 
monument upon thy bones the humming waters 
must overwhelm thy corpse, lying with simple 
shells. O Lychorida, bid Nestor bring me spices, 
ink, and paper, my casket and my jewels, and 
bid Nicandor bring me the satin coffin. Lay the 
babe upon the pillow, and go about this suddenly, 
Lychorida, while I say a priestly farewell to my 
Thaisa." 

They brought Pericles a large chest, in which 
(wrapped in a satin shroud) he placed his queen_, 
and sweet-smelling spices he strewed over her, 
and beside her he placed rich jewels, and a writ- 
ten paper, telling who she was, and praying if 
haply any one should find the chest which con- 
tained the body of his wife, they would give her 
burial: and then with his own hands he cast the 
chest into the sea. When the storm was over, 
Pericles ordered the sailors to make for Tharsus. 
"For," said Pericles, "the babe cannot hold out 
till we come to Tyre. At Tharsus I will leave it 
at careful nursing." 

After that tempestuous night when Thaisa was 
thrown into the sea, and while it was yet early 
morning, as Cerimon, a worthy gentleman of 
Ephesus, and a most skilful physician, w^as stand- 
ing by the seaside, his servants brought to him a 
chest, which they said the sea-waves had thrown 
on the land. " I never saw," said one of them 
" so huge a billow as cast it on our shore." Ceri 
mon ordered the chest to be conveyed to his own 
house, and when it was opened he beheld with 
wonder the body of a young and lovely lady; and 



PERICLES. 35J 

the sweet-smelling spices, and rich casket of 
jewels, made him conclude it was some great 
person who was thus strangely entombed: search- 
ing further he discovered a paper, from which he 
learned that the corpse which lay as dead before 
him had been a queen, and wife to Pericles, 
prince of Tyre; and much admiring at the strange- 
ness of that accident, and more pitying the hus- 
band who had lost this sweet lady, he said, *'If 
you are living, Pericles, you have a heart that 
even cracks with woe." Then observing atten- 
tively Thaisa's face, he saw how fresh and unlike 
death her looks were; and he said, " They were 
too hasty that threw you into the sea:" for he did 
not believe her to be dead. He ordered a fire to 
be m.ade, and proper cordials to be brought, and 
soft music to be played, which might help to calm 
her amazed spirits if she should revive; and he 
said to those who crowded I'ound her, wondering 
at what they saw, ''I pray you, gentlemen, give 
her air; this queen will live; she has not been 
entranced above five hours; and see, she begins 
to blow into life again; she is alive; behold, her 
eyelids move; this fair creature will live to make 
us weep to hear her fate." Thaisa had never 
died, but after the birth of her little baby had 
fallen into a deep swoon, which made all that 
saw her conclude her to be dead; and now by 
the care of this kind gentleman she once more 
revived to light and life; and opening her eyes, 
she said, "Where am I? Where is my lord? 
What world is this?" By gentle degrees Cerimon 
let her understand what had befallen her; and 
when he thought she was enough recovered to 
bear the sight, he showed her the paper written 



352 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

by her husband, and the jewels; and she looked 
on the paper, and said, " It is my lord's writing. 
That I was shipped at sea, I well remember, but 
whether there dehvered of my babe, by the holy 
gods I cannot rightly say; but since my wedded 
lord I never shall see again, I will put on a vesta) 
livery, and never more have joy." ''Madam," 
said Cerimon, "if you purpose as you speak, the 
temple of Diana is not far distant from hence, 
there you may abide as a vestal. Moreover, if 
you please, a niece of mine shall there attend 
you." This proposal was accepted with thanks 
by Thaisa; and when she was perfectly recover- 
ed, Cerimon placed her in the temple of Diana, 
where she became a vestal or priestess of that 
goddess, and passed her days in sorrowing for her 
husband's supposed loss, and in the most devout 
exercises of those times. 

Pericles carried his young daughter (whom he 
named Marina, because she v/as born at sea) to 
Tharsus, intending to leave her with Cleon, the 
governor of that city, and his wife Dionysia, 
thinking, for the good he had done to them at 
the time of their famine, they would be kind to 
his little motherless daughter. When Cleon saw 
prince Pericles, and heard of the great loss which 
had befallen him, he said, " your sweet queen 
that it had ple-ased Heaven you could have 
brought her hither to have blessed my eyes with 
the sight of her!" Pericles replied, "We must 
obey the powers above us. Should I rage and 
roar as the sea does in which my Thaisa lies, yet 
the end must be as it is. My gentle babe, Marina 
here, I must charge your charity -with her. I leave 
her the infant of your care, beseeching you to 



PERICLES. 353 

give her princely training." And then turning 
to Cleon's wife. Dionysia, he said, "Good madam, 
make me blessjd in yom- care m bringing up my 
child:" and she answered, "I have a child my- 
self who shall not be more dear to my respect 
than yours, my lord;" and Cleon made the like 
promise, saying, "Your noble services, prince 
Pericles, in feeding my whole people with your 
corn (for which in their prayers they daily re- 
member you) must in your child be thought on. 
If I should neglect your child, my whole people 
that were by you relieved would force me to my 
duty; but if to that I need a spur, the gods re- 
venge it on me and mine to the end of genera 
tion." Pericles being thus assured that his child 
would be carefully attended to, left her to the 
protection of Cleon, and his wife Dionysia, and 
with her he left the nurse Lychorida. When he 
went away, the little Marina knew not her loss, 
but Lychorida wept sadly at parting with her 
royal master. "0, no tears, Lychorida," said 
Pericles; "no tears; look to your little mistress, 
on whose grace you may depend hereafter." 

Pericles arrived in safet}'" at Tyre, and was 
once more settled in the quiet possession of his 
throne, while his woful queen, whom he thought 
dead, remained at Ephesus. Her little babe 
Marina, whom this hapless mother had never 
seen, was brought up by Cleon in a manner suit- 
able to her high birth. He gave her the most 
careful education, so that by the time Marina at- 
tained the age of fourteen years, the most deep- 
ly-learned men were not more studied in the 
learning of those times than was Marina. She 
sung like one immortal and danced as goddess- 
30* 



354 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

like, and with her needle she was so skilful that 
she seemed to compose nature's own shapes, in 
birds, fruits, or flowers, the natural roses being 
scarcely more like to each other than they were 
to Marina's silken flowers. But when she had 
gained from education all these graces, which 
made her the general wonder, Dionysia, the wife 
of Cleon, became her mortal enemy from jea- 
lousy, by reason that her own daughter, from the 
slowness of her mind, was not able to attain to 
that perfection wherein Marina excelled: and 
finding that all praise was bestowed on Marina, 
whilst her daughter, who was of the same age, 
and had been educated with the same care as 
Marina, though not with the same success, was 
in comparison disregarded, she formed a project 
to remove Marina out of the way, vainly imagin- 
ing that her untoward daughter would be more 
respected when Marina was no more seen. To 
encompass this she employed a man to murder 
Marina, and she well timed her wicked design, 
when Lychorida, the faithful nurse, had just died. 
Dionysia was discoursing with the man she had 
commanded th commit this murder, when the 
young Marina was weeping over the dead Ly- 
chorida. Leoline, the man she employed to do 
this bad deed, though he was a very wicked 
man, could hardly be persuaded to undertake it, 
so had Marina won all hearts to love her. He 
said, "She is a goodly creature!" "The fitter 
then the gods should have her," replied her mer 
ciless enemy: "here she comes weeping for the 
death of her nurse Lychorida: are you resolved 
to obey me?" Leoline, fearing to disobey her, re- 
plied, "I am resolved." And so, in that one 



PERICLES. 355 

short sentence, was the matchless Marina doomed 
to an untimely oeath. She now approached, with 
a basket of flowers in her hand, which, she said, 
she would daily strew over the grave of good Ly- 
chorida. The purple violet and the marigold 
should as a carpet hang upon her grave, while 
summer days did last. "Alas, for me!" she said, 
"poor unhappy maid, born in a tempest, when 
my mother died. This world to me is like a last- 
ing storm, hurrying me from my friends." "How 
now, Marina," said the dissembling Dionysia, 
" do you weep alone? How does it chance my 
daughter is not with you? Do not sorrow for Ly- 
chorida, you have a nurse in me. Your beauty 
is quite changed with this unprofitable woe. 
Come, give me your flowers, the sea-air will 
spoil them; and walk with Leoline: the air is fine, 
and will enliven you. Come, Leoline, take her 
by the arm, and walk with her." " No, madam," 
said Marina, "I pray you let me not deprive you 
of your servant:" for Leoline was one of Diony- 
sia's attendants. " Come, come," said this artful 
woman, v/ho wished for a pretence to leave her 
alone with Leohne, "I love the prince, your fa- 
ther, and I love you. We every day expect your 
father here; and when he comes, and finds you 
so changed by grief from the paragon of beauty 
we reported you, he will think we have taken no 
care of you. Go, I pray you, walk, and be cheer- 
ful once again. Be careful of that excellent com- 
plexion, which stole the hearts of old and 3^0 ung." 
Marina, being thus iinportuned, said, " Well, I 
will go, but yet I have no desire to it." As Diony- 
sia walked away, she said to Leoline, " Remember 
what I have said!" — shocking words, for their 



356 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

meaning was that he should remember to kill 
Marina. 

Marina looked towards the sea, her birthplace, 
and said, "Is the wind westerly that blows?" 
'* South-west," replied Leoline. "When I was 
born the wind was north," said shet and then 
the storm and tempest, and all her father's sor- 
lows, and her mother's death, came full into her 
mind; and she said, "My father, as Lychorida 
told me, did never fear, but cried. Courage, good 
seamen, to the sailors, galling his princely hands 
with the ropes, and, clasping to the mast, he en- 
dured a sea that almost split the deck." "When 
was this?" said Leoline. "When I was born," 
replied Marina: "never were waves nor wind 
more violent." And then she described the storm, 
the action of the sailors, the boatswain's whistle, 
and the loud call of the master, "Which," said 
she, "trebled the confusion of the ship." Lycho- 
rida had so often recounted to Marina the story 
of her hapless birth, that these things seemed 
ever present to her imagination. But here Leo- 
line interrupted her with desiring her to say her 
prayers. "What mean you?" said Marina, who 
began to fear, she knew not why. "If you re- 
quire a little space for prayer, I grant it," said 
Leoline; "but be not tedious; the gods are quick 
of ear, and I am sworn to do my work in haste." 
"Will you kill me?" said Marina: "alas! why?" 
''To satisfy my lady," replied Leoline. "Why 
would she have me killed?" said Marina: "now, 
as I can remember, I never hurt her in all my 
life. I never spake bad word, nor did any ill 
turn to any living creature. Believe me now, I 
never kiUed a mouse, nor hurt a fly. I trod upon 



PERICLES. 357 

a worm once against my will, but I wept for it. 
How have I offended?" The murderer replied, 
"My commission is not to reason on the deed, 
but to do it." And he was just going to kill her, 
when certain pirates happened to land at that very 
moment, who seeing Marina, bore her off as li 
prize to their ship. 

The pirate who had made Marina his prize, 
carried her to Metaline, and sold her for a slave, 
where, though in that humble condition, Marina 
soon became known throughout the whole city 
of Metaline for her beauty and her virtues; and 
the person to whom she was sold became rich by 
the money she earned for him. She taught mu- 
sic, dancing, and fine needleworks, and the mo- 
ney she got by her scholars she gave to her mas- 
ter and mistress; and the fame of her learning 
and her ^reat industry came to the knowledge of 
Lysimachus, a young nobleman who w^as the go- 
vernor of Metaline, and Lysimachus went him- 
self to the house where Marina dwelt, to see this 
paragon of excellence, whom all the city praised 
so highly. Her conversation delighted Lysima- 
chus beyond measure, for though he had heard 
much of this admired maiden, he did not expect 
to find her so sensible a lady, so virtuous, and so 
good, as he perceived Marina to be; and he left 
her, saying, he hoped she would persevere in 
her industrious and virtuous course, and that if 
ever she heard from him again it should be for 
her good. Lysimachus thought Marina such a 
miracle for sense, fine breeding, and excellent 
qualities, as well as for beauty and all outward 
graces, that he wished to marry her, and notwith- 
standing her humble situation he hoped to find 



S58 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

that her birth was noble; but ever when they 
asked her parentage, she would sit still and weep. 

Meantime, at Tharsus, Leoline, fearing the an- 
ger of Dionysia, told her he had killed Marina; 
and that wicked woman gave out that she was 
dead, and made a pretended funeral for her, and 
erected a stately monument; and shortly after 
Pericles, accompanied by his loyal minister Hel- 
licanus, made a voyage from Tyre to Tharsus, on 
purpose to see his daughter, intending to take hei 
home with him; and, he never having beheld 
her since her he left an infant in the care of 
Cleon and his wife, how did this good prince re- 
joice at the thoughts of seeing this dear child of 
his buried queen! but when they told him Marina 
was dead, and showed the monument they had 
erected for her, great was the misery this most 
wretched father endured, and not being able to 
bear the sight of that country where his last hope 
and only memory of his dear Thaisa was entomb- 
ed, he took ship, and hastily departed from Thar- 
sus. From the day he entered the ship a dull 
and heavy melancholy seized him. He never 
spoke, and seemed totally insensible to every 
thing around him. 

Sailing from Tharsus to Tyre, the ship in its 
course passed by Metaline, where Marina dwelt; 
!he governor of which place, Lysimachus, ob- 
serving this royal vessel from the shore, and desi- 
rous of knowing who was on board, went in a 
barge to the side of the ship, to satisfy his curi- 
osity. Hellicanus received him very courteously^ 
and told him that the ship came from Tyre, and 
that they were conducting thither, Pericles, their 
prince; "A man, sir,' said Hellicanus, ''who 



PERICLES. 



359 



lias not spoken to any one these three months, 
nor taken any sustenance, but just to prolong his 
grief; it would be tedious to 'repeat the whole 
ground of his distemper, but the main springs 
from the loss of a beloved daughter and a wife." 
Lysimachus begged to see this afflicted prince, 
and when he beheld Pericles, he saw he had been 
once a goodly person, and he said to him, " Sir 
king, all hail, the gods preserve you, hail royal 
sir!" But in vain Lysimachus spoke to him; 
Pericles made no answer, nor did he appear to 
perceive any stranger approached. And then 
Lysimachus bethought him of the peerless maid 
Marina, that haply with her sweet^ tongue she 
might win some answer from the silent prince: 
and with the consent of Hellicanus he sent for 
Marina, and when she entered the ship in which 
her own father sat motionless wath grief, they 
welcomed her on board as if they had known she 
was their princess; and they cried, "She is a 
gallant lady." Lysimachus was well pleased to 
hear their commendations, and he said, "She is 
such a one, that were I well assured she came of 
noble birth, I would wish no better choice, and 
think me rarely blessed in a wife." And then 
he addressed her in courtly terms, as if the lowly- 
seeming maid had been the high-born lady he 
wished to find her, calUng her Fair and beaviiful 
Marina, telling her a great prince on board that 
ship had fallen into a sad and mournful silence; 
and, as if Marina had the power of conferring 
health and felicity, he begged she w^ould under- 
take to cure the royal stranger of his melancholy, 
" Sir," said Marina, ' I will use my utmost skill 



360 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

in his recovery, provided none but I and my 
maid be suffered to come near him." 

She, who at Metaline had so carefully con- 
cealed ner birth, ashamed to tell that one of royal 
ancestry was now a slave, first began to speak to 
Pericles of the wayward changes in her own fate, 
telling him from what a high estate herself had 
fallen. As if she had known it was her royal 
father she stood before, all the words she spoke 
were of her own sorrows; but her reason for so 
doing was, that she knew nothing more wins the 
attention of the unfortunate than the recital of 
some sad calamity to match their own. The 
sound of her sweet voice aroused the drooping 
prince; he lifted up his eyes, which had been so 
long fixed and motionless; and Marina, who was 
the perfect image of her mother, presented to his 
amazed sight, the features of his dead queen. 
The long-silent prince was once more heard to 
speak. "My dearest wife," said the awakened 
Pericles, ''was like this maid, and such a one 
might my daughter have been. My queen's 
square brows, her stature to an inch, as wandlike 
straight, as silver- voiced, her eyes as jewellike. 
Where do you live, young maid? Report your 
parentage. I think you said you had been tossed 
from wrong to injury, and that you thought your 
griefs would equal mine, if both were opened." 
"Some such thing I said," replied Marina, "and 
said no more than what my thoughts did warrant 
me as likely." "Tell me your story," answered 
Pericles; "if I find you have known the thou- 
sandth part of my endurance, you have borne 
your sorrows like a man, and I have suffered like 
a girl; yet you do look like Patience gazing on 



PERICLES. 3G1 

kings' graves, and smiling Extremity out of act. 
How lost you your name, ray most kind virgin? 
Recount your story, I beseech you. Come sit by 
me." How was Pericles surprised when she said 
her name was Marina, for he knew it was no 
isual name, but had been invented by himself for 
his own child to signify seaborn: " 0, 1 am mock- 
ed," said he, "and you are sent hither by some 
incensed God to make the world laugh at me." 
"Patience, good sir," said Marina, "or I must 
cease here." " Nay," said Pericles, "I will be 
patient; you Uttle know how you do startle me, 
to call yourself Marina." " The name," she re- 
plied, " was given me by one that had some 
power, my father, and a king." " How, a king's 
daughter!" said Pericles, "and called Marina! 
But are you flesh and blood? Are you no fairy? 
Speak on; where were you born? and wherefore 
called Marina?" She repHed, "I was called Ma- 
rina, because I was born at sea. My mother was 
the daughter of a king; she died the minute I 
was born, as my good nurse Lychorida has often 
told me weeping. The king my father left me 
at Tharsus, till the cruel wife of Cleon sought to 
murder me. A crew of pirates came and rescued 
me, and brought me here to Metaline. But, good 
sir, why do you weep? It may be, you think me 
an impostor. But indeed, sir, I am the daughter 
to king Pericles, if good king Pericles be living." 
Then Pericles, terrified as it seemed at his own 
sudden joy, and doubtful if this could be real, 
loudly called for his attendants, who rejoiced at 
the sound of their beloved king's voice; and he 
said to Hellicanus, "0 HeUicanus, strike me, 
give me a gash, put me to present pain, lest this 
31 



362 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

great sea of joys rushing upon me, overbear the 
shores pf my mortahty. O, come hither, thou 
that wast born at sea, buried at Tharsus, and 
found at sea again. O Hellicanus, down on your 
knees, thank the holy gods! This is Marina. 
Now blessings on thee, my child! Give me fresh 
garments, mine own Helhcanus! She is not dead 
at Tharsus, as she should have been by the savage 
Dionysia. She shall tell you all, when you shall 
kneel to her, and call her your very princess. 
Who is this?" (observing Lysimachus for the first 
time.) " Sir," said Hellicanus, "it is the go- 
vernor of Metaline, who, hearing of your melan- 
choly, came to see you." " I embrace you, sir," 
said Pericles. *' Give me my robes! I am well 

with beholding Heaven bless my girl! But 

hark! what music is that? — for now, either sent 
by some kind God, or by his own delighted fancy 
deceived, he seemed to hear soft music. " My 
lord, I hear none," replied Hellicanus. "None," 
said Pericles; •' why it is the music of the 
spheres." As there was no music to be heard, 
Lysimachus concluded that the sudden joy had 
unsettled the prince's understanding; and he said, 
" It is not good to cross him; let him have his 
way:" and then they told him they heard the 
music; and he now complaining of a drowsy 
slumber coming over him, Lysimachus persuaded 
him to rest on a couch, and placing a pillow un- 
der his head, he, quite overpowered with excess 
of joy, sunk into a sound sleep, and Marina 
watched in silence by the couch of her sleeping 
parent. 

While he slept, Pericles dreamed a dream 
which made nim resolve to go to Ephesus. His 



PERICLES. 363 

dream was, that Diana, the goddess of the Ephe- 
sians, appeared to him, and commanded him to 
go to her temple at Ephesus, and there before 
her altar to declare the story of his Ufe and mis- 
fortunes; and by her silver bow she swore, that 
if he performed her injunction, he should meet 
with some rare felicity. When he awoke, being 
miraculously refreshed, he told his dream, and 
that his resolution was to obey the bidding of 
the goddess. 

Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come on 
shore, and refresh himself with such entertain- 
ment as he should find at MetaUne, which cour- 
teous offer Pericles accepting, agreed to tarry with 
him for the space of a day or two. During which 
time we may well suppose what feastings, what 
rejoicings, what costly shows and entertainments 
the governor made in Metaline, to greet the royal 
father of his dear Marina, whom in her obscure 
fortunes he had so respected. Nor did Pericles 
frown upon Lysimachus' suit, when he under- 
stood how he had honoured his child in the days 
of her low estate, and that Marina showed her- 
self not averse to his proposals; only he made it 
a condition, before he gave his consent, that they 
should visit with him the shrine of the Ephesian 
Diana: to whose temple they shortly after all 
three undertook a voyage, and, the goddess her- 
self filling their sails with prosperous winds, after 
a few weeks they arrived in safety at Ephesus. 

There was standing near the altar of the god- 
dess, when Pericles with his train entered the 
temple, the good Cerimon (now grown very aged) 
who had restored Thaisa, the wife of Pericles, to 
life; and Thaisa, now a priestess of the temple, 



364 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

was standing before the altar; and though the 
many years he had passed in sorrow for her loss 
had much altered Pericles, Thaisa thought she 
knew her husband's features, and when he ap- 
proached the altar and began to speak, she re- 
membered his voice, and listened to his words 
with wonder and a joyful amazement. And 
these were the words that Pericles spoke before 
the altar: " Hail, Diana! to perform thy just com- 
mands, I here confess myself the prince of Tyre, 
who, frighted from my country, at Pentapolis 
wedded the fair Thaisa: she died at sea in child- 
bed, but brought forth a maid-child called Marina. 
She at Tharsus was nursed with Dionysia, who 
at fourteen years thought to kill her, but her bet- 
ter stars brought her to Metaline, by whose shores 
as I sailed, her good fortunes brought this maid 
on board, where by her most clear remembrance 
she made herself known to be my daughter." 

Thaisa, unable to bear the transports which his 
words had raised in her, cried out, "You are, 

you are, O royal Pericles" and fainted. 

" What means this woman?" said Pericles: " she 
dies! gentlemen, help." — " Sir," said Cerimon, 
*' if you have told Diana's altar true, this is your 
wife." "Reverend gentlemen, no;" said Peri- 
cles: "I threw her overboard with these very 
arms." Cerimon then recounted how, early one 
tempestuous morning, this lady was thrown upon 
the Ephesian shore; how, opening the coffin, he 
found therein rich jewels, and a paper; how, 
happily, he recovered her, and placed her here 
in Diana's temple. And now, Thaisa being re- 
stored from her swoon, said, " my lord, are 
you not Pericles? Like him you speak, like him 



PERICLES. 365 

you are. Did you not name a tempest, a birth, 
and death?" He, astonished, said, " The voice of 
dead Thaisa!" " That Thaisa am I," she replied, 
" supposed dead and drowned." " true Diana!" 
exclaimed Pericles, in a passion of devout aston- 
ishment. "And now," said Thaisa, "I know you 
better. Such a ring as I see on your finger did 
the king my father give you, when we with tears 
parted from him at PentapoHs." " Enough, you 
Gods'" cried Pericles, "your present kindness 
makes my past miseries sport. O come, Thaisa, 
be buried a second time within these arms." 

And Marina said, " My heart leaps to be gone 
into my mother's bosom." Then did Pericles 
show his daughter to her mother, saying, " Look 
who kneels here, flesh of thy flesh, thy burthen 
at sea, and called Marina, because she was yield- 
ed there." " Blessed and my own!" said Thaisa: 
and while she hung in rapturous joy over her 
child, Pericles knelt before the altar, saying, 
" Pure Diana, bless thee for thy vision. For this, 
I will offer oblations nightly to thee." And then 
and there did Pericles, with the consent of Thaisa, 
solemnly affiance their daughter, the virtuous 
Marina, to the well deserving Lysimachus in 
marriage. 

Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen, and 
daughter, a famous example of virtue assailed by 
calamity (through the sufferance of Heaven, to 
teach patience and constancy to men,) under the 
same guidance becoming finally successful, and 
triumphing over chance and change. In Helli- 
canus we have beheld a notable pattern of truth, 
of faith, and loyalty, who, when he might have 
succeeded to a throne, chose rather to recall the 
31* 



366 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

rightful owner to hu T>ossession, than to becomu 
great by another's wrong. In the worthy Ceri- 
mon, who restored Thaisa to life, we are instruct- 
ed how goodness directed by knowledge, in be- 
stowing benefits upon mankind, approaches to 
the nature of the gods. It only remains to be 
told, that Dionysia, the wicked wife of Cleon, 
met with an end proportionable to her deserts; 
the inhabitants of Tharsus, when her cruel at- 
tempt upon Marina was known, rising in a body 
to revenge the daughter of their benefactor, and 
setting fire to the palace of Cleon, burnt both him 
and her, and their whole household: the gods 
seeming well pleased, that so foul a murder, though 
but intentional, and never carried into act, shoiili? 
be p\mished in a way befitting its enormity. 



THE END. 



'5!.'77«1 



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